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Rosa’s Return — Page 93 





ON THE OLD 
CAMPING GROUND 


®v 

MARY E^'>^MANNIX 

1 ) 

Author of “Cupa Revisited,” ‘‘As True as Gold,” 
‘‘The Peril of Dionysio,” etc. 



New York, Cikcinnati, Chicago 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS OF BENZIGER’S MAGAZINE 

1916 





COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY BENZIGER BROTHERS 


MAR 14 1916 

©a.A427253 

nAjb-i- 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER I 

PAGE 

A Visit to Rosa 7 

CHAPTER II 

Rosa^ the Discontented 18 

CHAPTER III 

The Flight 29 

CHAPTER IV 

En Route 4-2 

CHAPTER V 

Disillusion 52 

CHAPTER VI 

Sorrow and Hardships 64 

CHAPTER VII 

After Many Days 74 

CHAPTER VIII 

Home Again 84 

CHAPTER IX 

The Prodigal’s Return 92 


6 


6 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER X 


PAGE 

A Brave Little Woman 97 

CHAPTER XI 

A Solemn Ceremony 109 

CHAPTER XII 

The Story of Pancho 114 

CHAPTER XIII 

The Story of Pancho {Continued) . . . 123 

CHAPTER XIV 

The Flower of the Mission 136 


ON THE OLD CAMPING 
GROUND 

CHAPTER I 

A VISIT TO ROSA 

O NCE more the Pages were at Warner’s 
Hot Springs, or Cupa, as they loved 
to call it, for all their pleasantest memories 
of former sojourns there were associated 
with the Indians, the “Children of Cupa,” ^ 
who had been dispossessed of the lands some 
years before. There had been many changes 
since that time ; the Indians had become rec- 
onciled to their new home at Pala, and had 
grown into a thriving community. The 
resident priest who had elected to cast his 
lot among them had done much toward 
bringing about this satisfactory state of af- 
fairs. 

1 See “The Children of Cupa” and “Cupa Revisited.” 

7 


8 


A VISIT TO ROSA 


But there were still a very few of the old 
friends of the Pages residing in the neigh- 
borhood of the Springs, engaged in various 
avocations, and the former intimacy was in 
most cases renewed. 

Mr. and Mrs. Page, Nellie, and Walter 
were accustomed to taking long walks 
through the mountains. It was late Sep- 
tember, and rain seemed imminent, though 
it was early for such change of weather. 
But the previous winter had been unusually 
dry. Month had succeeded month of clear, 
warm weather; every one and every thing, 
wearied of the pitiless sunshine, longed for 
the first breath of the rain. It came one 
night, suddenly, unexpectedly, for the fleecy 
clouds which had flecked the blue for days 
seemed only far-away promises of what 
might happen before the subtle alchemy of 
Nature which marks the transition of the 
seasons. Gently, tenderly, dripping upon 
the roof and whispering through the trees 
it came, and then there was silence, and one 
turned on one’s pillow to wonder whether 


A VISIT TO ROSA 


that was all, and again it would begin danc- 
ing on the tiles of the adobe, and swish! 
swish 1 through the branches of the overhang- 
ing peppers, till one could recognize a new 
and prolonged murmur in the little stream 
that wandered almost beside the door. 

In the morning all nature looked fresh 
and green, and there was a delicious coolness 
and softness in the atmosphere, though the 
rain had ceased. 

“What a lovely day for Rosa’s!” said 
Walter, after breakfast. “Shall we go?” 

“Yes,” cried Nellie. “It will be delight- 
ful.” 

“Mother could never walk so far,” said 
Mr. Page. “But we can take the automobile 
and go around by the road, while you, Nellie 
and Walter, can climb the trail.” 

“Just the thing,” rejoined the young peo- 
ple, and Mrs. Page acquiesced. 

Rosa was an Indian girl who had been 
first at the San Diego Mission School where 
the Pages had often visited, and who after- 
wards had lived for some time with their 


10 


A VISIT TO ROSA 


friends, the Almirantes. The Pages had 
know her quite well; after a time her sister, 
Josef a, had lived in their own family until 
she married Francisco, their old friend. 
Rosa’s people were of the Volcan tribe, but 
the Volcans and Cupenos, dwelling not far 
apart, had always been good friends and 
neighbors. Once, during their present so- 
journ, on a long mountain climb they had 
come upon a forester’s house in a broad oak 
clearing and stopped to ask for a drink of 
water. What was their surprise to find 
Rosa established there as the wife of the as- 
sistant forester, a half-breed Indian named 
Alfonso Juarez. She was very glad to see 
them and made them promise to come again. 
And to-day seemed ideal for the visit. It 
was still quite early when Walter and Nellie 
started; people rise betimes in the mountains. 
Mr. and Mrs. Page did not expect to leave 
until a couple of hours later. 

The morning had a sharp chill after the 
rain, the air was filled with a thousand sweet 
and pungent scents, and Nellie declared that 


A VISIT TO ROSA 


11 


new grass had already begun to spring in the 
damp ways from the beneficent showers of 
the previous night. 

“Oh, no,” laughed her brother. “That 
would be a little too soon, even for Cali- 
fornia. It is only that the thick gray dust 
has been washed from the clumps growing 
all along the foot-path. They look quite 
young and green.” 

For some distance their way lay along a 
canyon, over fallen leaves of oak and syca- 
more, soft as a carpet, with overhanging 
shelves of rock crowded with every kind of 
wild herb, festooned by mountain clematis, 
and banked by giant ferns. The canyon 
left behind, they had hard scrambling up the 
trail, where everything around was still hard, 
dry, and dusty with the burden of summer. 
The rain had not had time to remedy the 
ravages of heat and aridity which long 
months of drought had made. Then, sud- 
denly, about midway up the mountain they 
came to a small circular dell in which 
sparkled a bright round pool, with cresses 


12 


A VISIT TO ROSA 


and ferns growing all about it, and slender, 
swaying canes overhanging its banks. 
There they sat upon a broad, flat rock and 
ate their luncheon, plentifully mixed with 
cresses and deep draughts of the pure, de- 
licious water. After they had rested about 
half an hour they took up the trail once 
more, following now the tiny stream of which 
the pool, containing in its depths a hidden 
spring, was the crystal source. 

And so up, for another hour, the stream 
widening as they went, till it ended abruptly 
in three miniature falls, beneath which, in 
a granite basin, there was another spring. 

‘T hope we are almost there. I am 
dreadfully tired,” said Nellie. “We have 
been walking nearly five hours.” 

“Yonder is Rosa’s home, just above,” re- 
joined Walter. “I can see it through the 
trees. Did you think we were so near?” 

“No,” replied Nellie. “I had no idea of 
it; we came around the other way before, 
and I am all confused. But I am glad, I 
assure you.” 


A VISIT TO ROSA 


13 


“I fancy this is Rosa’s spring-house,” said 
Walter. “Here, under this shelf of rock 
are butter, milk, tomatoes, and a couple of 
splendid melons. They make my mouth 
water.” 

“And very soon you shall taste them, Mr. 
Walter,” said a pleasant, musical voice very 
near. It was Rosa herself, parting the 
branches as she descended the slope. 

“Yes, this is my refrigerator. Is it not 
fine? Only a few steps from the house, and 
everything is kept so fresh and cool.” 

“Ideal,” said Walter. “And how are you, 
Rosa?” cried brother and sister. 

“Oh, fine!” said Rosa. “And I am so 
glad you came. Your papa and mama are 
already there. I am all alone; Alfonso had 
to go off suddenly for a few days, and my 
little niece, who stays with us, has gone home 
for a week. You must all make me a little 
visit. I shall not take no for an answer.” 

She was already reclimbing the slope, her 
hands full. Walter had taken the melons 
from her and followed with Nellie. 


14 


A VISIT TO ROSA 


They found Mr. and Mrs. Page seated on 
the little veranda. They had had a pleasant 
trip, the rain having laid the dust of the 
highway. 

“Yonder, see!” said Rosa when they had 
joined the older people. “That big tent will 
hold fourteen. The foresters had it when 
there was a meeting here the other day, and 
they have not yet taken it away. There are 
cots, and I have plenty of bed-clothing. 
You must stay. And also there will be 
enough to eat, for those extravagant men 
would not take back any of the provisions 
left over. As usual, they brought far too 
many.” 

“It seems our destiny!” said Walter 
laughingly. “What do you say, people?” 

All declared that they would enjoy it very 
much. Rosa wished to prepare dinner im- 
mediately, but her guests dissuaded her, say- 
ing it was too early. She compromised 
finally by cutting the watermelon, and 
Walter carried back the butter and milk to 
the impromptu refrigerator in spite of Rosa’s 


A VISIT TO ROSA 


15 


protests, who wanted to do it herself. After 
they had partaken of the delicious refresh- 
ment Walter and Nellie busied themselves 
with their hostess in arranging the tent, 
which, with a couple of blankets as a divid- 
ing curtain, was soon made very comfortable. 
They had a most appetizing dinner. After- 
wards, when they were all lounging on the 
veranda, Mrs. Page said to Rosa who came 
to join them, a piece of drawn- work in her 
hands : 

“Rosa, you are very industrious. I have 
never seen you idle.” 

“I was not always so, Mrs. Page,” she re- 
plied. “Once I was the most idle girl you 
ever saw. I am ashamed when I think of 
it.” 

“Rosa!” exclaimed Nellie. “I cannot be- 
lieve it.” 

“Anyway, it is true,” she responded. 
“And it took something hard to cure me, too. 
But it was a good lesson.” 

“What was it?” asked Nellie. 

Rosa smiled. 


16 


A VISIT TO ROSA 


‘‘The Chicago Fair/’, she rejoined. 

“The Chicago Fair?” exclaimed her 
guests. 

“Yes, just that. Maybe, if I had not seen 
that, or gone there, I would have been just 
the same lazy, idle Rosa still. And maybe 
worse.” 

“Was it something you read about the 
Fair?” inquired Mrs. Page. 

“No, Senora,” she replied, “I was there.” 

“Why, Rosa, we did not know you had 
ever been there.” 

“Not many do, I think, but I have been. 
Maybe it was not the Fair altogether — ^but 
that was the time — and how I got back. 
Oh, sometimes I still dream of those awful 
months, and I tell you it is good to wake 
again here — in my own mountains.” 

“Oh, do tell us about it!” cried Nellie. 

“I will, if you like to hear,” replied Rosa. 
“Maybe it will be tiresome; I don’t know.” 

“Not a bit tiresome, Rosa,” said Walter. 
“Let us have the story now.” 

Nothing loath, Rosa began to relate the 


A VISIT TO ROSA 


17 


history of her adventure in the busy world, 
which had been of the greatest use in form- 
ing her character, and which had cured her 
of a deep-seated discontent with her simple 
life and its surroundings. We should like to 
be able to give it in her own words, but on the 
whole it would not be as interesting as in 
its present form, as Mr. and Mrs. Page sub- 
sequently learned different portions of it 
from Sister Loreto and also from Padre 
Antonio who related to them in detail his 
own immediate connection with it, his prov- 
idential rescue of Rosa and her return to 
the Mission. 


CHAPTER II 


EOSA, THE DISCONTENTED 

T he Mission lay, brown and olden, ma- 
jestic in the midst of its ruin. Not a 
hundred feet distant from the pathetic pile 
the gaunt, unlovely, but comfortable build- 
ings of the Indian school loomed up in the 
solemn silence of earliest morning. Dawn 
was breaking above the purple chain of foot- 
hills on the distant horizon, when the door 
of the dormitory opened, and half a dozen 
girls began to descend the outside stairway 
— slowly, with sleepy yawns, and scarce half- 
opened eyes. But, early as it was, after 
crossing the yard they found Sister Loreto 
in the laundry, brisk, smiling, and alert, as 
she came toward them from the semi-dark- 
ness of the cavernous basement room. The 
fire was already lighted, and into the capa- 
cious boilers, filled with water beginning to 
18 


ROSA, THE DISCONTENTED 19 


bubble and sizzle on the immense stove, she 
prepared to cut into fragments several large 
pieces of soap. 

“Hurry now, girls!” she said. “Make 
haste to sort the clothes. But first take a 
bite and a drink of milk.” 

Turning toward the deep window-sill, one 
of the girls poured the contents of a large 
pitcher into several bowls, upon each of 
which rested a piece of white bread. Hastily 
despatching the slight repast, they turned to 
the great baskets of clothes waiting to be 
sorted and washed. 

After they had worked in silence about 
five minutes. Sister Loreto said; 

“Anita, and Maria, you may begin at the 
tubs now. When you have finished that 
heap, Manuela and Juana, you may begin 
also; and by the time Antonia and Luisa are 
through there will be clothes ready for the 
boiler. But where is Rosaria?” 

A shadow darkened the doorway even as 
she spoke. A girl stood there, her hands 
clasped above her head, while she yawned 


20 ROSA, THE DISCONTENTED 

audibly; advancing with a slow, reluctant 
footstep to the work which lay spread out be- 
fore her. 

“Quick, Rosaria!” said Sister Loreto. 
“Separate the coarse and fine towels. You 
are always so late.” 

“I was sleepy,” replied the girl in an in- 
different tone. 

“When were you not sleepy, Rosa?” asked 
Juana, with a laugh. “When your head is 
on the pillow you are asleep ; sometimes, even 
when we are walking in procession to the 
shrine, I almost think you will fall on the 
path.” 

“I do not like to walk about, you know,” 
was the reply. 

“Or to work either, it seems,” said the 
Sister, who could not fail to note the listless- 
ness with which Rosa lifted and let fall the 
clothes. “You are very provoking, child. 
Do you not see that you are disarranging 
that pile which Juana has already sorted.” 
Then, as if regretting her hasty speech, she 
continued in a kindly tone: “But no doubt 


ROSA, THE DISCONTENTED 21 


you want something to eat. There are bread 
and milk on the window-ledge. Take some. 
By the time you have finished the sleep will 
have left your eyes, perhaps.” 

Rosaria dropped the towel she held in her 
hands, and walking languidly toward the 
window-sill began to eat and drink. The 
bell rang. 

“It is five o’clock,” said Sister Loreto. “I 
must go to meditation. By six, girls, I hope 
to see the boilers full.” 

“Yes, Sister,” answered the children 
cheerfully — all except Rosaria, who still 
lingered at her repast. 

For some time after the sound of Sister 
Loreto’s footsteps had died away on the long 
stone flagging outside, the girls worked 
silently and diligently. Splash, splash! 
went the water; thud, thud! the washboards, 
as they vigorously rubbed, their arms elbow- 
deep in creamy suds. Suddenly Juana 
looked up from her tub to wipe the perspira- 
tion from her forehead. Her back to the 
window, idly gazing at her companions. 


22 ROSA, THE DISCONTENTED 


stood Rosaria, slowly munching a piece of 
bread. 

“Well, this is nice!” said Juana, as she 
caught sight of her. “And when will you 
begin to work. Miss?” 

At this sally Anita also looked up. 

“Maybe she is to be monitor this morning, 
to see that we do not waste our time,” she 
said sarcastically, eying Rosaria with a half- 
contemptuous glance. 

The others laughed; and Rosaria began 
to move slowly toward her tub, which Luisa 
was now piling full of clothes. 

“It is too bad, I think, Rosa,” she said, 
“that when you have the easiest job you are 
always so slow to begin it. What is the mat- 
ter with you, anyway?” 

“But you know, Luisa,” said Maria 
kindly, “that since she hurt her wrist it is 
not so strong, and maybe that is why ” 

“Yes, yes; I know that is why she gets the 
easy job; but that is not why she should try 
to get out of all work. She is very well able 
now to do like the rest.” 


ROSA, THE DISCONTENTED 23 


“Oh, you talk too much!” said Rosaria, in 
a slow, drawling voice, as she rolled up the 
sleeves of her gown. “And you wash and 
wash, and scrub and scrub, and knead the 
bread and knead the bread ; and how are you 
any the better for that? You do not get 
any more to eat than I.” 

“And I could not eat one-half so much, 
and I do notr replied Luisa, as she went 
back to her rubbing. 

This was followed by a general laugh at 
Rosaria’s expense. A short silence ensued. 
The clothes on the stove began to boil over, 
and Maria said : 

“Punch those towels, Rosa. Stir them 
about with the stick, and open the door of 
the stove.” 

“Why do you order me about, Maria? 
Why do you not punch them yourself?” 
asked Rosaria. 

“Shame on you, Rosaria,” cried Anita, 
“shame on you, when Maria is always so 
kind! See — she does not budge! Oh, I 
could whip you !” she continued, hastily seiz- 


24 ROSA, THE DISCONTENTED 

ing the stick from the hearth and beginning 
to stir the clothes. 

But Rosaria only laughed. 

“There is a soft bed for you,” added Anita, 
pointing to the huge pile on the floor. 
“Why not lie down?” 

“Why not?” answered Rosaria, amused at 
Anita’s earnestness and pleased that she 
could tease her a little. Suiting the action 
to the word, she threw herself at full-length 
upon the yielding mass. 

“Paugh!” said Anita. “An unpleasant 
bed, I should think. But those who are lazy 
can lie anywhere.” 

“That is so,” responded Juana. “But 
why do you act so lazy, Rosa? Indeed, it is 
not right.” 

“Who wishes to work when she can have 
an easy time?” answered Rosaria. “To get 
up so early in the morning — I just hate it!” 

“But it is not every morning,” said Maria. 
“Only Monday, for the wash. And how 
would we feel if we were washing in the heat 
of the day?” 


ROSA, THE DISCONTENTED 25 


“I would like better not to wash at all — 
or get up early.” 

“But now, now, Rosa,” said Antonia, “at 
home, in the mountains, we must always get 
up early.” 

“No, indeed, Antonia!” replied Rosa, with 
emphasis. “There I sleep as long as I 
please.” 

“And who has a more imtidy and forsaken 
home?” whispered Juana to Anita. 

“That is true,” said Anita. “Do they not 
call her father ^Juan Callejero^?^^ ^ 

“Yes, so it is; but she must not hear, or 
she will be angry. And, then, it is not right 
to go too far.” 

Some one passed the window. Rosa 
sprang up, but her foot caught on the loose 
end of a sheet and she fell back on the heap 
of soiled clothes. While she was once more 
struggling to her feet Sister Loreto entered. 

“Are you not well, my dear?” she inquired, 
with some concern, approaching the girl, who 
now stood blushing and ashamed before her. 

iJohn the Idler. 


26 ROSA, THE DISCONTENTED 

The others giggled, and applied themselves 
vigorously to the washing. 

‘T am well,” said Rosaria, still keeping her 
head cast down. 

“And were you not lying on the clothes 
as I passed the window? Why did you do 
that, Rosa?” 

“Anita said it would be a soft bed for me, 
and I threw myself down.” 

“Oh, I see! You have been shirking your 
work again. I do not know what we shall 
do with you, Rosa, if you continue as you 
have begun the new year. Formerly you 
were not so idle. What have you done since 
I went upstairs?” 

“Nothing, Sister, but eat my lunch and lie 
down there,” pointing to the disordered heap 
of clothes. There was something in her tone 
which savored of impertinence. 

“Do you know, Rosa, that you are taking 
the place of others who would be glad to 
come to the Mission, but whom we can not 
receive for want of room?” 

“Yes, I know it. Maria Angela would 


ROSA, THE DISCONTENTED 27 


be glad to come. I told her she might, in 
my place, the last time when Padre Antonio 
came for us to Santa Elena. But my 
mother was angry; she would not have it.” 

“And what did the Padre say?” 

“He did not know it; my mother did not 
tell him.” 

“And why? Because he would perhaps 
have taken Maria Angela in your stead?” 

“I think so,” said Rosa, turning away. 

“Stay, Rosa,” called out Sister Loreto. 
“Such conduct as yours is deserving of pun- 
ishment. I really think Mother would speak 
to Padre Antonio if she knew. But I will 
give you another chance; for you surely need 
it more than Maria Angela. She is a good 
girl. Go to the shrine and stay there half 
an hour; then come to me. Pray while 
there that you may be a better girl. The 
children are up now. Call Dolores to take 
your place here.” 

Sister Loreto turned away. Still hang- 
ing her head, Rosa passed into the bright 
morning sunshine. 


28 ROSA, THE DISCONTENTED 


“That is just what she wants — to get off 
from the washing,” whispered Anita to her 
companion. 

“Yes,” was the reply, also in a very low 
tone. “But Sister Loreto hopes it will do 
her good to go to the shrine. It is terrible, 
you know, the way she is doing these days. 
Poor Rosa! She is not so bad. And when 
she sings — oh, my! — ^when she sings it is just 
lovely to hear her.” 

“That has made her too proud,” said 
Luisa, from another tub. 

“Poor Rosa!” repeated the kind-hearted 
Maria; while her companions glanced at one 
another and smiled. 


CHAPTER III 

THE FLIGHT 


s Rosaria reached the foot of the stairs 



jl\. on her way to the shrine, the children 
were coming down. Casting a careless 
glance upward, she said to the first of the 
larger girls on whom her eye rested: 

“Dolores, go to the laundry. Sister 
Loreto wants you.” 

Dolores, a stout, cheerful-looking girl, 
who liked work better than books, sprang 
quickly out of the ranks and hurried along 
the stone flagging. Rosa pursued her way 
toward the hill-path, her head cast down, her 
heart troubled and filled with discontent. 
Five years before she had come to the Mis- 
sion, a pretty, laughing, frolicsome child, 
whom the Sisters found it difficult to confine 
between walls and behind desks and sewing- 
tables. But she learned to read quickly, and 
soon became proficient in all kinds of needle- 


29 


30 


THE FLIGHT 


work. However, she was one who often 
halted in well-doing; and when these moods 
were upon her not even the spur of necessity 
could move her. The character of the “chil- 
dren of the forest” presents as many diversi- 
ties as those of their pale-faced sisters; cir- 
cumstances change, evolve, and control it, 
just as with ourselves. 

When it was discovered that, in addition 
to being the possessor of a beautiful voice, 
Rosa had considerable talent for music. 
Sister Laurentia taught her to play the 
melodeon. But when, by virtue of this 
talent, Rosa began to “put on airs,” as the 
others called her manner of conducting her- 
self, even going so far as to compare her 
long, slender fingers with what she termed 
the “stubs” of her companions; and when it 
became evident that to give a solo to any of 
the other girls was sufficient to put Rosa in 
a bad humor for two or three days, the good 
Sisters also began to question the wisdom of 
their action in her regard. After repeated 
admonitions, therefore, Rosa was deposed 


THE FLIGHT 


31 


from her position of school-room organist. 
Her voice no longer led in the hymns and 
canticles; for she utterly refused to sing, 
feigning a hoarseness which had all the 
semblance of reality. An indisposition to 
perform her allotted tasks had also mani- 
fested itself about this time, that is, such 
tasks as were essentially menial and labori- 
ous. When Padre Antonio had been told 
of the state of affairs he said: 

“Mother, Rosa must be made to work. 
Should she return to her home and marry, 
what else will there be for her to do? And 
if she remain here and later go out to service, 
it is not fine embroidery and piano-playing 
that will be required of her, but washing and 
ironing and cooking. When she does these 
with a good will, let her play and sing and 
embroider, if she chooses, for a recreation; 
but not otherwise. It would be cruelty to 
make a fine lady of one to whom hereafter 
such accomplishments must only be a source 
of discontent. Until she works at manual 
labor well and cheerfully, not an embroidery 


32 THE FLIGHT 

stitch or an artificial flower or a note on the 
piano.” 

At the Mission the words of Father 
Antonio were law. No one knew “the chil- 
dren” better than he, who had buried their 
grandfathers, married their parents, and 
baptized every child on the reservation for 
five and thirty years. And he understood 
better even than the Sisters that it was 
wounded pride and vanity, rather than in- 
dolence, which lay at the root of Rosa’s in- 
disposition to work like her companions. 
But even he was not aware of the deep- 
seated discontent which had taken possession 
of her, to the exclusion of almost every bet- 
ter feeling. And if he were, it is doubtful 
whether anything other than a good, whole- 
some lesson, such as she was soon to receive, 
would have availed to curb the unruly spirit 
which prevailed in her heart. 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

It was the month of April. Already the 
hillsides were becoming brown and arid ; the 


THE FLIGHT 


33 


river was nearly dry ; the sun shone as warm 
in the heavens as though it were ten o’clock 
in the morning. After that hour the breeze 
would begin to sweep in from the sea; but as 
Rosa toiled slowly up the winding path she 
felt uncomfortably warm. At no time was 
exertion pleasant to her; this morning the 
climb seemed doubly long. When she 
reached the shrine, instead of kneeling at 
once on the broad step in front of the little 
altar surmounted by an image of Our Lady, 
she sat down to rest. With compressed lips 
and frowning brows, she remained for some 
time staring into vacancy. A rustle in the 
small clump of bushes behind the shrine 
caused her to turn her head. A tall, angular 
woman, dressed in black, was approaching 
her. Half-way down her prominent nose 
rested a pair of immense blue glasses ; in one 
hand she carried a book, in the other a 
crooked stick. 

“Good-mornin’ !” she said, looking some- 
what apprehensively at Rosa, whose counte- 


34 


THE FLIGHT 


nance certainly did not appear very amiable 
at that moment. 

“Good-morning!” answered the girl 
briefly; but rising to her feet, as she had 
been taught to do when addressed by an 
older person. 

“You’re an Indian, ain’t you?” asked the 
newcomer, advancing a step nearer. 

“Yes, Sefiora,” was the reply. 

“You needn’t ‘Sefiora’ me,” said the 
woman. “From what I’ve read and heard, 
I think the word is a relic of the Spanish 
Inquisition.” 

Rosa looked at her in surprise, not 
at all comprehending the drift of her re- 
mark. 

“Sit down,” said the woman. 

The girl obeyed, and the stranger seated 
herself beside her on the step. 

“You go to school down there?” she in- 
quired, pointing to the Mission. 

“Yes,” replied the girl, “yes, ma’am.” 

“Do you like it? Do those people treat 
you well?” 


THE FLIGHT 


85 


Rosa hesitated. She could not tell a lie; 
for in her heart of hearts she was attached 
to the school and her kind teachers. But 
just at present she was in no mood to vaunt 
her allegiance. Besides, she resented the 
question, and so did not reply at once. 

“You don’t like it, do you? They don’t 
treat you well, I guess. They make you 
work, eh?” 

“Of course,” said the girl curtly. “And 
why not?” 

“Don’t you know that you are one of the 
'wards of the 

Again Rosa regarded her blankly. 

“Haven’t they ever told you that?"' 

“No,” said Rosa, becoming more and more 
mystified. 

“Do you have to work hard — real hard? 
What do you have to do?” 

“Wash and iron and scrub and sew and 
study,” rephed Rosa, running the words off 
quickly from her lips, and wishing the 
woman would go away. 

“What do you like best?” 


36 


THE FLIGHT 


“To play on the melodeon and sing and 
knit and embroider.” 

“Can you sing hymns?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“And play accompaniments?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Can you do that fine drawin’ work?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Would you like to go where you could do 
that kind of work all the time, when you 
weren’t singin’ and playin’ on the melo- 
deon?” 

Rosa’s eyes brightened. 

“Oh, yes!” she said, eagerly. “Do you 
want a girl?” 

The woman leaned toward her. 

“Yes,” she whispered. “But I live far, 
far away from here, in a great big city.” 

Rosa shook her head. Her face became 
grave; she began to feel afraid. 

“I could not go far,” she said. “My 
father would not like it, and the Sisters 
would not let me, nor Padre Antonio. But 
if you lived near. Sen — ma’am ” 


THE FLIGHT 


37 


“But you need not tell them. You could 
steal away. Then I would teach you about 
God ” 

“I know about Him,” interrupted the girl, 
drawing away from her companion, and 
glancing over her shoulder at the image of 
the infant Jesus in the arms of His holy 
Mother. 

“Oh, not that God!” exclaimed the woman 
contemptuously. 

“And is there another?” asked Rosa. 

“You poor creature! Do you think that 
stucco figger can help you?” 

“Stucco figger! I don’t understand,” an- 
swered the girl. 

“Poor thing! Poor thing!” said the 
woman. “See here! Wouldn’t you like to 
go with me to Chicago, where they’re goin’ 
to have the great Fair? You heard about 
the Fair, didn’t you?” 

“No,” said Rosa simply. 

“Well, I never — I never did! Oh, sich 
ignorance as they keep them creatures in is 
terrible. Well, I’ll tell you. Chicago is a 


38 


THE FLIGHT 


great big place, and at the Fair you can see 
all sorts of beautiful things from every part 
of the world. Wouldn’t you like to see 
them?” 

“I think so — ^maybe,” said Rosa. 

“And wouldn’t you like to play on the 
melodeon in a big hall, on Sundays, and sing 
all you wanted to?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” answered Rosa, her face 
brightening again. 

“Well, you just make up your mind to 
come along with me, then.” 

“When? Will you ask the Sisters?” 

“No,” said the woman tersely. “You 
must run away. I want you to be my girl. 
Do you understand? Here you are a slave; 
there you will be free.” 

“I am not a slave!” replied Rosa in- 
dignantly. 

“Yes, you are,” said the woman. “You 
are a slave without being aware of it. I 
know all about the ways of them Orders with 
the poor Indians. Wouldn’t you like to 
have a melodeon of your own?” 


THE FLIGHT 


39 


“Yes,” said Rosa, eagerly. 

“Well, you shall have one. I’ve got one 
at home that’s just the same as my own, and 
I’ll give it to you if you only come along 
with me. Don’t you want to help in the 
Lord’s work?” 

Rosa did not answer immediately. 

“When must I go?” she asked at last. 

“Just now — this very minute,” was the 
reply. “When must you go back to the 
house?” 

“Soon,” said Rosa. 

“What in the world did you come up here 
for, anyway?” 

“To pray; Sister Loreto sent me.” 

“What had you been doin’?” 

“I didn’t want to wash.” 

“Ah, I don’t blame you! If you’ll come 
with me you won’t have to wash or do nothin’ 
but httle chores, and play on the melodeon 
and sing most of the time.” 

“Are you going away to that big city, 
Chicago, to-day — now?” 

“No; to-morrow mornin’. Me and my 


40 


THE FLIGHT 


sister’s been stoppin’ down there for a couple 
of days, in that farmhouse. We’re goin’ 
home to-morrow. Will you come?” 

Rosa looked off in the direction of the 
woman’s finger, and saw that she pointed to 
the dwelling of the only family in the quiet 
little valley who were not friendly to the 
Sisters. 

“The Branes live there,” she observed. 
“They are not kind to the Sisters.” 

“That is because they know them so well. 
But they will be kind to yow. What is your 
name?” 

“Rosa,” said the girl. 

“Well, Rosa, come along. Come with me 
right away.” 

But Rosa did not move. 

“I do not know you,” she replied. 

“I’m an evangelist,” said the woman. 

“I thought that was only St. John and the 
other apostles.” 

“Any one who teaches the Gospel is an 
evangelist, Rosa.” 

“Oh!” said the girl, still unconvinced. 


THE FLIGHT 


41 


“What a foolish girl!” exclaimed the 
woman. “You’d rather wash and bake and 
scrub all the days of your life here in Cali- 
fornia — wouldn’t you? — ^than come with me 
and be free to play and sing most of your 
time.” 

A sudden temptation seized the girl. She 
rose to her feet. 

“I will go with you,” she said. 

“Come, then,” replied the woman, and she 
took her by the hand. 

Rosa followed her in silence. Quickly 
descending the hill behind the bushes, in an 
opposite direction from the Mission, they 
soon reached a secluded farmhouse in the 
valley, where Rosa was eagerly welcomed 
by the narrow-minded people who lived 
there. She remained hidden until night, 
while her teachers and companions sought 
her far and wide, until, their search proving 
fruitless, they concluded she had fled to 
Cupa, to her own home. 


CHAPTER IV 


EN ROUTE 

L ike a few other people, sad to say, Mrs. 

Adaliza Adams made religion a cloak 
for fraud and hypocrisy. But she had at 
least one virtue — love for her crippled sister, 
for whom, as she was unable to move with- 
out help, Adaliza had to keep an attendant. 
The “evangelist” had come to California in 
the train of a noted revivalist, after the de- 
parture of whom it was her custom to linger 
in the various cities where he “ministered,” 
in order, as Mrs. Adams expressed herself, 
to pick up the loose odds and ends. This 
meant, in plain language, ingratiating her- 
self into the homes and hearts of her fellow- 
Christians, with sometimes (to her) tangible 
results. Her sister had accompanied her to 
California, in the hope that the trip might 
prove beneficial to her health. 

42 


EN ROUTE 


48 


A mulatto girl, about sixteen years of age, 
who had been hired to accompany them, de- 
serted the party after a few weeks’ sojourn 
in the Southwest, as her wages were not 
forthcoming and her labors were arduous. 
Her ticket having been purchased for the 
round trip, Mrs. Adams had hardly set 
eyes on Rosa before she began to think of 
her as a substitute for the departed “Rose.” 
The idea took hold of her like an inspiration. 
The Indian girl was about the same height 
and size, her color not very dark, and the 
names were identical. But when she learned 
also that Rosa could play the melodeon and 
was accustomed to sing, wider and grander 
possibilities at once began to present them- 
selves to her mind. In fancy she saw her 
mission Sunday-school class singing their 
usual hymns, but with an enthusiasm they 
had not hitherto known. With Rosa at the 
helm, what a vista might not open before 
them! What a drawing-card she would 
prove, not only to the young scholars, but 
also to the visitors who came occasionally to 


44 


EN ROUTE 


witness their progress ! Snatched as a 
brand from the fire of superstition, her pa- 
thetic story could be utilized in a wonderful 
manner. Fate was indeed propitious; it 
seemed to have prepared the event to her 
hand. 

Loud and enthusiastic was the welcome 
the Indian girl received from the Brane 
family when, the surprise of her appearance 
once well over, she remained firm in her in- 
tention to accompany her new protector to 
Chicago. The people of the house were wily 
enough not to let drop anything derogatory 
to the Sisters or the school, as they had 
already had a slight experience with one of 
the girls who had run away ; and thus learned 
that, while temporarily incensed at some 
fancied injury, the children were at heart 
warmly attached to their teachers, and ever 
ready to defend them. 

The shades of night were falling when 
Mrs. Adams and her sister took their places 
in the farmer’s covered wagon, accompanied 
by Rosa. On her head the girl wore an old 


EN ROUTE 


4i5 


hat which had been given her by the daugh- 
ter of the house who had also added a light 
sacque, much too small, but which Mrs. 
Adams told her would be sufBcient to cover 
her shoulders for the present. Other cloth- 
ing she had none, with the exception of what 
she was wearing. 

As they drove slowly along the valley, 
Rosa could not help casting a wistful glance 
at the home she was leaving far behind. 
Her courage had dwindled much since morn- 
ing. The incessant, meaningless chatter of 
Mrs. Adams, joined to the querulous com- 
plaints of the sick woman, were in such vivid 
contrast to the calm, dignified demeanor of 
the Sisters, that she heaved more than one 
sigh of regret during the day for the home 
and friends she thought never to see again. 
As they made the last turn in the valley road, 
hiding from sight the ruins of the old Mis- 
sion, she felt an impulse to spring from the 
wagon and retrace her truant steps ; but pride 
and timidity held her back. To her simple 
soul it appeared certain that she would only 


46 


EN ROUTE 


be received, if at all, to be sent home as soon 
as Padre Antonio could be informed of her 
misconduct. 

“Now I feel to breathe more free!’’ ob- 
seiwed Mrs, Adams, in her superlatively 
nasal tones, as they crossed the river and be- 
gan to drive at a lively pace toward the city. 
“And, Rosa, you can take a long breath, 
too, my dear. You needn’t have no more 
fears: they won’t be likely to git you now.” 

Rosa did not reply. 

“I hope you’re not feelin’ sorry?” said the 
invalid, touching the girl’s arm with her 
thin, trembling hand. 

“No, Senora,” answered Rosa kindly, 
vainly endeavoring to suppress a yawn. “I 
am a little sleepy. I did not rest veiy well 
last night.” 

“Rosa, I wish you wouldn’t use that out- 
landish word you just now said,” rejoined 
Mrs. Adams from the front of the wagon. 
“I want you to say, ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and ‘No, 
ma’am,’ when you speak to sister and me.” 

“I don’t know, Adaliza,” said the sick 


EN ROUTE 


47 


woman, “but what it sounds kind of nice, 
after all. I’m almost certain it would take 
mighty well in Chicago. It sounds so fur- 
rin, you know.” 

“Mebbe you’re right, Elora,” was the re- 
sponse. “There ain’t no harm in it, I guess; 
only it sounds so kind of Romanistic. And 
you’re goin’ to give up all them sorts of fool- 
eries; ain’t you, Rosa?” she continued, turn- 
ing again to the girl, who had been only half 
attentive to what had been said. 

“Please, what did you say, ma’am?” she 
inquired, bending forward. “I was not lis- 
tening just then.” 

“I said you was goin’ to give up all them 
Romanistic fooleries, now that you was 
cornin’ to learn the truth of the Gospel. 
You’ve been favored, Rosa. I hope you’ll 
realize it.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” was the reply, given in a 
mist of wonderment as to the meaning of 
“Romanistic fooleries.” 

“That’s right!” said Adaliza; while Elora 
patted her on the arm. 


48 


EN ROUTE 


“Better not be too previous with that 
young un’, Sister Adams,” whispered old 
Farmer Brane, who was driving. “Them 
Injuns, you know, is very tenacious of their 
superstitions, and you’ve got to go slow with 
’em.” 

“I guess I’ll be able to manage her,” said 
Adaliza. “I’ve had considerable experi- 
ence, and with much harder subjects than 
she promises to be.” 

Soon the lights of the city began to twin- 
kle in the distance. The long climb up Mis- 
sion Grade accomplished, the party drove to 
a third-class hotel in the lower part of the 
city. Rosa assisted in putting the invalid 
comfortably to bed, after which she was 
given a cot in a corner of the room occupied 
by the sisters. It seemed to her that she had 
only closed her eyes when she was awakened 
by her mistress, bidding her rise quickly, as 
there was much to be done before the hour 
for departure. When all their belongings 
had been packed and labelled, the trio went 
downstairs. They were met in the dining- 


EN ROUTE 49 

room by the farmer, who had spent the night 
in town. 

While the others sat down to breakfast, 
Rosa was taken into a very large and very 
dirty kitchen by a red-armed woman, who 
gave her a cup of coffee and some bread and 
butter, of which she partook standing, from 
the shelf of the sink where the woman had 
placed it. Before they left the hotel Mrs. 
Adams called her into a small pantry ad- 
joining the dining-room. She held a large 
blue veil in her hand. 

“Rosa,” she said, in a low, mysterious 
voice, “I’m goin’ to pin this here veil over 
your hat. Don’t you tech it, to take it off, 
till we git out a ways from town. There 
might be some one round, or at the Station, 
that wouldn’t like to see you goin’ off with 
me.” 

She pinned the veil closely about the girl’s 
hat; and, this precaution taken, the party 
entered the omnibus, which soon deposited 
them at the station. Hurrying Rosa and 
the invalid into the cars, Mrs. Adams sal- 


50 


EN ROUTE 


lied forth again to see about the luggage. 
This occupied but a few moments, and she 
soon returned to her companions. The bell 
rang, the train lunged backward and for- 
ward in its efforts to start ; and the now con- 
trite and terrified Rosa, fearful of herself, 
dreading the instant (which she felt was im- 
minent) when she must jump up and cry 
aloud, clung desperately to the top of the 
seat in front of her, in a heroic effort to hold 
herself in check, and to gather strength for 
the unknown difficulties which confronted 
her. But as the train speeded onward her 
grasp relaxed ; her hands, chill and limp, fell 
at her sides ; she leaned her head against the 
framework of the window near which she sat. 
Thankful now for the friendly protection of 
the thick blue veil, she allowed the tears to 
flow as they would. She could see, through 
those bitter tears, the school-room, which the 
girls were now putting in readiness for the 
day; could hear their friendly chatter and 
harmless badinage; and oh, what would she 
not have given to be with them once again! 


EN ROUTE 


51 


Thus it was with scalding drops welling up 
from her heart, and the bitterness of regret 
penetrating every fiber of her soul, that poor 
Rosa began her little journey into the world. 


CHAPTER V 


DISILLUSION 

M rs. Adams and her sister lived in a very 
small flat, very high up in one of those 
very large buildings which are growing to 
be distinctive features of our great cities, 
East and West. As the trio traversed the 
miles and miles of closely built avenues Ada- 
liza began to descant on the beauties of East- 
ern civilization as compared with that of the 
sparsely settled Southwest from which they 
had come. 

“My, but it’s good to be home ag’in!” she 
continued, peering eagerly out of the win- 
dow of the ’bus in which they were being con- 
veyed to their destination. “Don’t you 
think so, sister?” 

“Yes, it is,” replied the invalid. “I’m 
mighty tired, Adaliza; but, somehow, I’m 
kind of out the way of bearin’ so many 

52 


DISILLUSION 


53 


noises. I do wish we could live a little ways 
out of town. I like the trees; they are so 
pretty and restful lookin’. And the quiet 
is nice, too.” 

“I know that,” said the sister. “But what 
would become of my work in case we went? 
I’ve just got to be in the thick of it. And, 
besides, it’s our livin’ — it’s our livin’.” 

“Yes, yes, I know,” was the reply. 
“I’m not complainin’; I was just sayin’ I’d 
like if it didn’t have to be so.” 

Rosa did not know whether to be happy 
or unhappy, as, with astonished gaze, she 
was whirled past the long rows of houses. 
After a drive of about half an hour, they 
reached the place which was to be her future 
home. That day and the next were fully 
occupied with setting things to rights; she 
did not have time to be lonely. She soon 
began to learn that her duties were manifold, 
and more continuous than they had been at 
the Mission. There she had had intervals 
of rest and recreation; here she was kept con- 
stantly going. From early morning, when 


54 


DISILLUSION 


she began the day by preparing breakfast, 
until late in the evening she knew but few 
moments of intermission from her labors. 
Mrs. Adams was abroad early, and Rosa was 
expected to wash and dress the invalid; to 
read to her the morning paper, besides others 
which, though they seemed to interest the 
hearer, were nearly unintelligible to the In- 
dian girl. 

As soon as they were fairly established, 
Mrs. Adams bought several dozens of linen 
handkerchiefs, which she had requested Rosa 
to ornament with “drawin’ work,” and that 
as speedily as possible. She had told the 
girl that she would require one of these to be 
completed weekly until the stock on hand 
was finished, as she expected to have much 
demand for them. This necessitated the 
burning of oil beyond the time Rosa’s mis- 
tress thought necessary or economical. 

‘Tf you get up at half -past four you can 
do a good two hours’ work before it is time 
to get breakfast,” she said, “as sister and I 
are never ready until seven.” 


DISILLUSION 


55 


This was a great hardship to Rosa, who, 
as we already know, liked to sleep above all 
things, and whose chief cause of dissatisfac- 
tion at the Mission had been that she could 
not do so to her heart’s content. She had 
hoped also, and had been led to believe, that 
upon her arrival in the magnificent city of 
which Mrs. Adams had told her so much, she 
would be taken to see its beautiful sights. 
But her mistress seemed to have forgotten 
her promise; for she had been a fortnight in 
the house before she had been permitted to 
go as far as the sidewalk. Once, when she 
expressed a wish to attend church — on the 
first Sunday, — Mrs. Adams had replied, 
with some asperity : 

“What’s that, Rosa! To church, with 
them togs! You must wait until I can git 
you into some proper clothes ; then I’ll take 
you.” 

The girl responded: “It won’t make any 
difference, I think, ma’am, about the clothes. 
I could go early; no one would look at me. 
I guess I can find the place. See, it is 


56 


DISILLUSION 


there !” she continued, pointing to the gilded 
cross crowning a spire in the immediate 
neighborhood, not more than a couple of 
blocks distant. 

“No, indeedr almost shrieked Mrs. Ad- 
ams, recoiling from the contemplation of the 
hated symbol of “superstition” which had 
always been an offence in her eyes. “Not 
to that church, Rosa, my dear! You’ll come 
proper and good with me the first Sunday I 
have some clothes to put onto you.” 

Rosa did not reply, and Mrs. Adams con- 
gratulated herself on having won an easy 
victory. She was mistaken, however, as sub- 
sequent events proved. 

Rosa was absolutely unconscious that any 
attempt was being made to interfere with her 
religion. At the Mission she had heard of 
persons who were not of the Catholic faith; 
but the knowledge had never impressed her as 
of importance, or as likely to concern herself 
in any way. Since arriving in Chicago she 
had said her prayers morning and evening, 
faithfully and piously. In the morning she 


DISILLUSION 


57 


knelt for a few brief moments at the side 
of her cot, as had been the custom of the girls 
at the Mission when unusually early rising 
had prevented them from going to the chapel 
with their companions. 

In the Adams household it was customary 
to read a chapter in the New Testament 
every night, followed by silent prayer on the 
part of the sisters. Bible History had al- 
ways been a strong point with Rosa. Mrs. 
Adams expressed much surprise when, upon 
questioning her relative to various points of 
Scripture of which she had supposed all 
Catholics to be ignorant, the Indian girl 
had shown herself to be well informed. 
She could not reconcile this with her pre- 
conceived opinions on the subject, but did 
not forget to use it as a drawing-card later 
on. 

Meantime, while her employers bent their 
heads in wordless devotion, poor Rosa 
quietly said her usual night prayers; and, 
owing to the recollections they aroused in her 
mind, at this hour every evening she con- 


58 


DISILLUSION 


stantly felt an impulse to burst into tears. 
But the Indian is both proud and self-con- 
tained. She had come of her own free will; 
no one should see that she regretted her 
hasty action, or witness the weakness she 
concealed in the depths of her soul. All her 
pettish obstinacy had disappeared; she went 
about her tasks as meekly and humbly as the 
most critical mistress could have desired. 
Mrs. Adams was inwardly congratulating 
herself that she had found Rosa not only a 
willing but an abject slave. Her first light 
on the subject came some days after their re- 
turn from California. 

In a short time friends began to call — 
middle-aged ladies with voices as thin-edged 
as their owners, also stout, red-faced ma- 
trons, a sprinkling of the masculine contin- 
gent giving a flavor of variety to these gath- 
erings. For they seldom arrived singly ; or, 
if they did, their numbers were reinforced. 
Rosa was the principal object of these nu- 
merous visits, and she was not slow to realize 
the fact. The Indian eludes observation. 


DISILLUSION 59 

and is especially averse to answering ques- 
tions. 

The first time the girl was introduced into 
the little parlor where Mrs. Adams held her 
friendly levees, she came with reluctant step, 
replied to all inquiries — some of which she 
understood and others which she did not — 
with great reluctance, and in as few words 
as possible. But when this became a matter 
of daily occurrence her old nature began to 
reassert itself with more and more pertinac- 
ity, till finally, one afternoon when her vis- 
itors had gone, Mrs. Adams said : 

“Rosa, I am not pleased with your man- 
ner of actin’. Since we’ve come home I’ve 
been tellin’ my friends of the wonderful way 
I rescued you, and what a nice, pleasant girl 
you were ; and here you put on a pouty, sulky 
face the minute you come in the parlor, and 
act as indifferent as you can. What do you 
mean by it, eh?” 

“I am not for a show,” replied Rosa, in 
a low voice, without looking up from the 
needlework she held in her hand. 


60 


DISILLUSION 


“What are you for? Do you know?” in- 
quired her mistress, her voice putting on a 
rising inflection. 

“For work,” said the girl. 

“For work? Yes. And what else?” 

“For wages, I think,” answered Rosa. 

“For wages! Well — yes. But maybe 
you don’t know that I paid thirty-flve dol- 
lars for fetchin’ you to Chicago. After 
you’ve worked that out, we may talk about 
wages.” 

Rosa opened her eyes. She had not 
known that her mistress considered her in 
her debt. But a moment’s reflection told 
her that it was just. 

“How long will it take to earn so much?” 
she inquired. 

“About a year,” said Mrs. Adams. 

“Oh!” cried Rosa, while her heart fell. 

She could not tell exactly how, but she had 
been led to believe that her departure from 
the Mission would be followed by large and 
speedy returns for the services she was ex- 


DISILLUSION 


61 


pected to perform. She made a rapid men- 
tal calculation. 

“That is not quite three dollars a month,” 
she added, with a sigh. “And I have noth- 
ing to wear, only this” — pointing to her 
dress, — “and the underclothes you gave me 
that were that other girl’s are too small.” 

“Well, I declare!” observed Mrs. Adams. 
“I would like to know what you had at the 
Mission!” 

Thinking her mistress wished her to enu- 
merate the articles of clothing she had left 
behind her, Rosa replied simply: 

“Another blue calico one like this I have 
on; two Sunday dresses — one for summer 
and one for winter; three skirts ” 

“Oh, hush, will you!” exclaimed Mrs. Ad- 
ams impatiently. “I wish you had fetched 
the old things along. It would have saved 
me some trouble and expense.” 

“They were not old, and I could not bring 
them. How could I go for them?” inquired 
the girl calmly. “I am sorry if you will 


62 


DISILLUSION 


have trouble to buy some. I think, ma’am, 
they pay more wages in California than 
here.” 

She looked down at her shoes, which were 
beginning to wear out at the sides ; the soles 
had already been mended twice. 

Mrs. Adams regarded her angrily. 

“Did you ever hear of the serpent’s tooth, 
Rosa?” she asked, approaching a step nearer. 

“No, ma’am,” replied the girl, shrinking a 
little, while her eyes blazed. 

“You thought I was going to strike you,” 
said the woman. “But I wasn’t.” 

Rosa did not reply. Her hand trembled. 

“Were you afraid?” snarled the other. 

“No,” answered the girl; “I was not in the 
least afraid.” 

Turning abruptly, Mrs. Adams left the 
room. 

“But I was afraid,” she told her sister 
later. “What a blessing she didn’t suspect 
it! One can never be certain of them In- 
juns. I’m not sure but what she’ll give me 
trouble yet. She has a will of her own.” 


DISILLUSION 


63 


“That’s so,” said the invalid. “You 
know, Adaliza, I never did think much of 
the experiment.” 


CHAPTER VI 


SORROW AND HARDSHIPS 

G reatly to the relief of Mrs. Adams, 
Rosa appeared as cheerful as usual 
that evening. She had made a heroic effort 
to do so, fearful that she might be turned, 
out upon the world friendless as well as pen- 
niless if she continued to show signs of dis- 
content or displeasure. 

Next morning her mistress went out soon 
after breakfast, returning at eleven o’clock 
with a large package, which she at once 
brought to the kitchen, where Rosa was pre- 
paring the soup. 

“See what I’ve got!” she exclaimed, cut- 
ting the string which held the bundle, and al- 
lowing the contents to fall on the floor. 
“Pick ’em up, pick ’em up, one by one, 
Rosa; they’re all for you. I got them for 
you myself.” 


64 


SORROW AND HARDSHIPS 65 


The girl’s face became illumined as she 
obeyed. 

“Yes, that’s for you,” Mrs. Adams went 
on, “that pretty red cashmere, and that 
brown linen, and that white duck, and all 
them underclothes and stockin’s, and them 
two pretty white skirts, and them two pairs 
of shoes. And Mrs. Blonder is goin’ to trim 
you a hat this mornin’, and bring it over her 
own self. And, my ! ain’t that a pretty cape, 
Rosa! Now you’re all quite rigged out for 
sure, and you can go to church necct Sunday 
as often as you want to.” 

Rosa deposited the articles on the table, 
after admiring each separately, turning it 
round and round, the heart of her mistress 
glowed with self -approbation and satisfac- 
f action at her morning’s work. It had been 
a happy idea, that of going to her friend, 
Mrs. Blonder, who had lost a daughter about 
a year previous. Like herself, Mrs. Blon- 
der was devoted to what she called “mission 
work,” albeit she kept a millinery shop, in 
which her labors were arduous. Filled with 


66 SORROW AND HARDSHIPS 

the zeal of making a new convert, she bade 
Mrs. Adams take liberally of what remained 
of her daughter’s clothes. That lady had 
responded willingly, with the result we have 
seen. The pleasure expressed by Rosa on 
receiving the garments had convinced anew 
her sometime doubting mistress that gifts 
would be the surest way to gain her alle- 
giance. 

Rosa gathered the articles up carefully 
and took them to the small, half-lighted 
room where she slept, hoping to enjoy them 
at her leisure when her work should be done. 
But that night, in the solitude of her cham- 
ber, she was seized with such a fever of home- 
sickness that the clothes were loathsome to 
her; she could not look at them. Having 
said her prayers with unwonted fervor, she 
retired to rest, drawing some content from 
the thought that she would be able to go to 
church on Sunday. 

The next morning her mistress asked 
whether she had tried on any of the dresses. 


SORROW AND HARDSHIPS 67 


Rosa, after some hesitation, made answer 
that she had not. 

“Why?” asked Mrs. Adams, more disap- 
pointed than she cared to show. “It seems 
to me you’d have been in a hurry to do it.” 

“I forgot, when I went in there to go to 
bed,” said Rosa. “I was so home — home- 
sick I did not think of the clothes.” 

“Homesick! You don’t mean to say 
you’re frettin’ after them nuns or that mis- 
erable hole I took you from!” 

Rosa glanced out of the window. 

“It is a pretty place,” she observed quietly. 
“So large and broad and sweet the fields, 
so grand the mountains behind, so blue the 
sky. Here it is different. So crowded the 
houses, so close the air; and nothing green — 
nothing!” 

Mrs. Adams laughed. 

“Green! You call those withered up 
miles and miles of valley land green! It 
was as dry as a bone before we left.” 

“It is beautiful in winter,” said Rosa. 


68 SORROW AND HARDSHIPS 


“And I always think it pretty, because it is 
home and I am used to it.” 

“I thought you told me your home was in 
the mountains?” said Mrs. Adams. 

“Yes, my father lives there,” answered 
Rosa. “But I have been a long time at the 
Mission.” 

“Well,” rejoined her mistress, assuming 
a more pleasant tone, “pretty soon I’m goin’ 
to show you another mission.” 

Rosa’s face brightened. “I did not know 
there were any here,” she remarked. 

“Oh, yes, indeed!” said Mrs. Adams. 
“Not like that one, of course; but one of the 
Lord’s own, and much blessed in its labors 
and rewards. On Sunday I will take you 
there.” 

“That will be good; I shall like it,” said 
the girl. “Maybe I can go to church at the 
same time?” 

“Of course, of course!” was the reply. 
“We always go to church Sundays.” 

“And, Adaliza,” said the invalid, “it 
wouldn’t be out of the way to take Rosa to 


SORROW AND HARDSHIPS 69 


the park of an afternoon, so shell see how 
much prettier and greener it is in Chicago 
than in California. She seems kind of 
peaked bein’ so much in the house. S ’posin’ 
she and I take a car and go round this after- 
noon?” 

“I’ve no objection,” returned her sister. 
“But I don’t think it’s a good plan to let her 
get in the habit of runnin’ about.” 

This last remark was made in a low voice; 
but, apparently, the girl was not paying at- 
tention. 

The proposed program was not followed 
that day. Mrs. Adams did not think it ad- 
visable to permit Rosa to go abroad unless 
she accompanied her. She felt that the girl 
must be closely guarded until she had become 
more accustomed to the change in her life 
and its new conditions. Therefore the trip 
was postponed, a source of great disappoint- 
ment to Rosa as well as the invalid, who was 
pining for a breath of fresh air. 

Sunday morning came at last. The 
evening before Mrs. Adams had presented 


70 SORROW AND HARDSHIPS 

Rosa with the new hat brought by the mil- 
liner. It was pretty; and, after trying it on, 
she laid it on the table, with the other things 
she had placed in readiness. 

It wanted fifteen minutes of nine when, 
accompanied by Mrs. Adams, Rosa, for the 
first time since her arrival, set foot upon the 
sidewalk and turned her steps in the direc- 
tion of the golden cross which she had seen 
so often from the window. But when they 
were within half a block of the church which 
it crowned the girl saw, with regret, that 
they were not to proceed in its direction. A 
great many people were coming toward 
them: returning home after eight o’clock 
Mass. 

“Do we not go there?” she inquired, 
pointing to the church. “Or maybe it is 
late?” 

“Didn’t I tell you quite distinctly the other 
day that you could not go there, Rosa?” was 
the reply. “Do you think I’d set my foot 
in one of them Catholic churches? Of 
course I can’t blame you much for wantin’ 


SORROW AND HARDSHIPS 71 


to go, because youVe never heard any dif- 
ferent; but you’ll soon come to despise ’em 
just the same as I do. You’ll understand 
what you’ve escaped from when you begin to 
see the true light, which I hope and believe 
will be very soon, for you’re rather a bright 
girl, Rosa.” 

Rosa comprehended little of what was 
said, save that she was not to be permitted 
to go to a Catholic church, and was being 
taken to another one instead. She stood 
still on the sidewalk. 

“You will please excuse me, ma’am,” she 
said, “but I think I will ask some one if there 
is not another Mass, perhaps at ten. I know 
it used to be so in the city, where I some- 
times went with one of the Sisters.” 

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Mrs. 
Adams angrily. “Didn’t you hear what I 
said? You’re cornin’ to Sunday-school with 
me — do you understand? — to-day and every 
other Sunday. Come on ! Do you want me 
to be late for my class?” 

Rosa regarded her calmly, as is the fash- 


72 SORROW AND HARDSHIPS 

ion of her race, particularly if aware of their 
own advantage. 

“It is not possible for you to make me go 
to your church if I will not,” she replied. 
“The Catholic church is mine, and there will 
Igor 

“You viper!” muttered Mrs. Adams be- 
tween her teeth, as she endeavored to seize 
the girl’s hand. “Come on! Don’t you see 
that people are beginning to look at us?” 

But Rosa continued immovable. 

“I will do your work,” she said. “I will 
sew for you, and take such good care of Miss 
Elora as I can; but to your church I will not 
go, unless it is the Catholic. And you can 
not make me go to your church, ma’am. 
Please excuse me; I will go home to the 
house.” 

“I see what you want,” said her mistress, 
turning about. “You think you can sneak 
back to the church; but you sha’n’t do it. 
Miss, you sha’n’t do it! I’ll be terrible late, 
I know ; but Mrs. Blonder will take my class 
till I get back. What a shame, what a mor- 


SORROW AND HARDSHIPS 73 


tification, when I expected to bring you for- 
ward this very mornin’ ! Come along, Miss 
Stubborn; you can go back home at once.’’ 

Quickly retracing their steps, they were 
soon mounting the stairs to their own flat. 
When they reached the landing, Mrs. Ad- 
ams threw open the door of the little sitting- 
room, where her sister sat reading the Bible. 

“There, Elora!” she said snappishly, push- 
ing the girl inside the door. “Do what you 
can with that baggage ; I don’t know how to 
manage her.” 

So saying Mrs. Adams hurried away, not 
knowing how to face her wondering and dis- 
appointed co-workers in the harvest-fleld, 
who had been led to expect many and great 
revelations from the visit of the “converted” 
Indian girl from the wilds of California. 


CHAPTER VII 


AFTER MANY DAYS 

N a sultry August evening, fatigued 



after a long day at the World’s Fair, 
two priests were about leaving the grounds, 
when one of them turned suddenly around, 
saying; 

“Didn’t you hear some one calling?” 

“No,” replied the other. “Was it a cry 
of distress you heard?” 

“Not that exactly. But I was sure I 
heard some one call ‘Father! Father!’ and 
the voice seemed familiar.” 

“In this Babel of sound and of many 
voices,” rejoined his companion, “it seems to 
me it would be almost impossible to distin- 
guish a voice that was familiar. It is very 
likely you did hear some one call ‘Father!’ 
No doubt there are many lost children here 
every day.” 


74 


AFTER MANY DAYS 75 

“It may have been fancy,” was the reply, 
as they resumed their walk. 

But it was not fancy. Behind them a 
dark-skinned, shabbily-dressed girl was 
frantically endeavoring to make her way 
through the compact mass of people which 
surged through the entrance. But her ef- 
forts were fruitless; long before she reached 
it the priests had disappeared. Very thin 
and starved she looked. Her dress was 
ragged and much too short ; her shoes almost 
falling to pieces. In one hand she held a 
nickel tightly clasped — all that remained to 
her of the small store in her possession ten 
days before. She had gone to the Fair day 
after day in quest of a friend, and on this 
last afternoon she had caught a tantalizing 
glimpse of him — one little glimpse — and 
then, she concluded bitterly, he had disap- 
peared from her sight forever. Borne along 
by the crowd for some distance, she paused 
at last in front of one of those flimsy struc- 
tures to which the emergency of the situation 
had given the name of hotels. After delib- 


76 


AFTER MANY DAYS 


crating a moment she slowly turned down a 
narrow passage-way leading to the domestic 
offices. 

In a small outside room a woman was 
washing dishes. Large drops of perspira- 
tion stood on her forehead. She was short, 
stout and red-faced ; but her eyes were great 
blue, honest Irish eyes, and a pleasant smile 
rested on her lips. It grew broad as she 
caught sight of the girl now looking in at the 
open window. 

“Oh, welcome, Rosie!” she said. “And 
won’t you come in? I’m busy the day. I’ll 
give you a quarter if you’ll help me till the 
rush is over.” 

The girl entered at once. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Flaherty!” she said. 
“I was afraid you might not need me again.” 

Taking a towel from the rack behind the 
stove, she began to wipe the dishes. 

“And where have you been so long?” asked 
the woman, glancing compassionately at the 
wan face and ragged attire of the girl. 


AFTER MANY BAYS 77 

“I have been to the Fair every day and all 
day since you read that in the paper.” 

“And you’ve seen no one?” 

“Yes; to-day, for the first time, I saw 
Father Antonio; but — ah, only one look did 
I get, and he was gone! And now — ^now, 
perhaps it is all over. I can not, I think, 
find him again.” 

“You’re sure it was him?” 

“Sure. He was with another priest — one 
I have never seen. Oh, Mrs. Flaherty, what 
can I do?” 

“I don’t know,” said the other thought- 
fully, “unless you put an advertisement in 
the paper; and that costs money, which you 
haven’t got. And I doubt that a traveler 
would be caring to read advertisements in a 
strange place. And where did you sleep 
since I saw you last?” 

“Anywhere,” said the girl ; “sometimes un- 
der the steps and behind the boxes.” 

“That isn’t right. ’Tisn’t safe for you, 
Rosie; and the police’ll get after you. Come 


78 


AFTER MANY DAYS 


down to my place after this, as you did be- 
fore. We’re crowded, to be sure; but, any- 
way, a quilt on the floor is better than being 
on the street.” 

“Thank you, ma’am!” said the girl. 

“And what have you been doing with re- 
gard to meals?” 

“Two loaves of bread have I eaten in 
many days. I spent all the rest of the 
money getting into the Fair,” replied 
Rosa. 

“ ’Tis a pretty place, they tell me.” 

“Yes, yes: you must go there some time, 
Mrs. Flaherty.” 

“Is it me? I wouldn’t give a thraneen 
for the whole of it. I do be that tired every 
night going home to my little ones that I 
can’t get to bed soon enough. The children 
have been there a couple of times, and they 
tell me it’s a grand show entirely.” 

The good woman had withdrawn her hands 
from the water, and was busy setting a cup 
of coffee and some bread and meat upon a 
side-table. 


AFTER MANY DAYS 79 

“Come, eat,” she said. “You’ll work the 
better for it.” 

Rosa needed no second invitation. She 
ate with that appetite which is itself the best 
sauce. But her heart was heavy with priva- 
tion and disappointment; and, after she had 
gone back to her work at the woman’s side, 
she spoke but little until they had finished. 

It was half -past nine when Mrs. Flaherty 
put on her blue sunbonnet and left the out- 
side kitchen of the “Eastern Grand Hotel,” 
where she had been dishwashing for the past 
three months. She lived with her three 
grandchildren in a huge tenement house, 
about half a mile distant. The children 
were in bed when she and Rosa arrived, tired 
and languid. Both were soon asleep. 

About six the following morning Rosa 
awoke, and found Mrs. Flaherty standing 
beside her. 

“Get up now, my girl!” said the kind 
woman. “Maybe I have some news for you. 
On my way home from five o’clock Mass 
just now I met a grand-looking priest hurry- 


80 


AFTER MANY DAYS 


ing along toward the church. I think it 
was to say Mass he was going. He had a 
long beard, which made me look at him hard. 
He was tall and thin and a little gray. Isn’t 
that like your Father, Rosa?” 

“Oh, yes, yes!” said the girl eagerly, 
hurriedly fastening her clothes. “A little 
water, please, Mrs. Flaherty, and let me 
wash and comb my hair. And will I be in 
time, do you think? And where — ^which 
church?” 

“Yon,” said Mrs. Flaherty pausing, with 
the basin in her hand, to point out of the 
window. “It is not far — ^not more than a 
block.” 

“Oh, if you could only come along!” ex- 
claimed the girl, tearful and trembling. 
“If it is Father Antonio, I shall be so 
ashamed! And if he does not speak to me, 
I can not be alone. Oh, I could not bear it 
to be alone !” 

“And why wouldn’t he speak to you?” in- 
quired Mrs. Flaherty, at the same time giv- 
ing a vigorous push to a girl of about twelve. 


AFTER MANY DAYS 


81 


lying sound asleep on a mattress on the floor. 
“If he’s the grand man you make him out 
to be, or a priest of God at all, at all, he 
couldn’t do less than that. As for taking 
you back with him, Rosie, that’s another mat- 
ter. ’Twill take a deal of money; and that’s 
not to be expected — though there’s no harm 
in hoping for the best. Mary Jane,” she 
continued, addressing the girl who now sat 
up, rubbing her eyes, “go down to Mr. 
Spielor’s and take my place for an hour or 
so. Tell him I’ll be there at eight at the 
farthest.” 

“You are coming with me?” inquired 
Rosa, putting on her hat. “Oh, do you 
think you can spare time to come?” 

“Yes; I’ll be with you now. Wait till I 
tie my bonnet, dear,” said Mrs. Flaherty, 
taking a black shawl from the bureau drawer. 
“I’ll need to be a bit decent if I’m to meet 
his Reverence, as ’tis to be hoped, with the 
help of God.” 

She could hardly keep up with Rosa when 
they reached the street. They were soon in 


82 


AFTER MANY DAYS 


the church. The priest of whom she had 
spoken was saying Mass at the Blessed 
Virgin’s altar. Shrinking behind the 
friendly shelter of a column, Rosa began to 
sob softly. 

“It is he, — ^yes, it is Father Antonio!” she 
whispered. 

“Let us pray — let us pray fervently,” an- 
swered her companion, bowing her head upon 
her hands. 

And Rosa prayed as she had never prayed 
before. When Mass was over she again 
whispered: 

“What shall we do? Shall we go to him 
or shall we wait a little? Oh, I am afraid! 
And yet I feel as if I must go.” 

Mrs. Flaherty arose; Rosa followed her 
out of the church. They stood on the steps, 
undecided what to do. 

“I think it’s likely he’ll take breakfast at 
the house,” said Mrs. Flaherty. “But 
maybe not ; and we can’t afford to miss him. 
But, whatever he does, he’ll have to pass that 
little side-way beyond, unless I make a great 


AFTER MANY DAYS 83 

mistake. We’ll wait there, Rosie, till he 
comes.” 

Seating themselves on the broad stone cop- 
ing of the wall between the schoolhouse and 
the church, they waited for a time in silence. 
The hot sun was pouring down upon them, 
with the promise of another sweltering day. 
But they did not notice it ; they had but one 
overpowering thought in their minds. Sud- 
denly the sacristy door was heard to close 
and two persons came out. They were the 
priests whom Rosa had caught sight of at 
the Fair the day before. Her heart stood 
still, then began to beat furiously. She 
shrank behind her companion for an instant; 
then, plunging forward, she fell on her knees 
in the path of the astonished clergymen. 

“What, Rosa!” cried Father Antonio. 
“Do I see you again! Poor child, poor 
child ! And where have you been since you 
left us?” 

But poor Rosa did not answer. She had 
fainted away. 


CHAPTER VIII 


HOME AGAIN 

B etween them, the priest and Mrs. 

Flaherty lifted the prostrate girl and 
carried her into the house. She soon re- 
vived, and sat up erect on the sofa where 
they had placed her, very much chagrined 
that she had shown such weakness. The 
first tones of Father Antonio’s kindly voice 
had reassured her, however: she was no 
longer afraid that he would refuse to hear 
her story or accept her repentance. She 
told it with perfect truthfulness — from the 
moment she had set out on her unwilling 
way to the shrine that eventful morning until 
the Sunday when she refused to accompany 
Mrs. Adams to the Sunday-school, and was 
ignominiously taken home. 

“She scolded me very much that day,” 
continued Rosa; “and she said she would 

84 


HOME AGAIN 


85 


take the clothes away from me. When the 
night came some men and women were 
there. Mrs. Adams made me stand up be- 
fore them, and she said: 

“ 'How is it that you still want to go to 
that Catholic church where they have treated 
you so bad?’ 

“And I said: ‘They have never treated 
me bad.’ 

“ ‘Why, then, did you run away from the 
Mission?’ one asked me. 

“ ‘Because I was bad and lazy and did not 
want to work,’ I said. 

“ ‘You begged Mrs. Adams to take you 
away,’ said one. 

“ ‘No, sir,’ I said. ‘She asked me to go 
with her.’ 

“ ‘You are a little liar!’ cried Mrs. Adams, 
and she shook me. 

“ ‘No, ma’am,’ I said. ‘I do not always 
tell the truth maybe, but I do now.’ 

“ ‘Were you not in rags?’ said the lady 
who had given me the clothes. 

“ ‘No, ma’am,’ I said. ‘I was in a good 


86 


HOME AGAIN 


blue calico dress; and I had another like it, 
and two for Sundays,’ 

“ ‘Hush up!’ Mrs. Adams said. 

“ ‘First let me tell,’ I said, ‘that my clothes 
were at the school, and I could not get them 
when I ran away.’ 

“ ‘Well,’ said one, and she was pretty nice, 
‘if you will be a good girl now, and do what 
Mrs. Adams says, then she will forgive you, 
and it will be all right again.’ 

“ ‘Ma’am,’ I said, ‘I will work very hard 
for her, and will do what I can with the 
embroidery; but I will not go with her to 
that church.’ 

“ ‘What, then, if this lady will take away 
all the pretty clothes?’ said one. 

“ ‘And I will do it,’ said that lady. ‘And 
the pretty hat as well.’ 

“ ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I will come back 
in a moment.’ 

“So I went then to the room where I slept, 
and I folded up everything, and I put them 
in a big bundle, and I took them in and put 
them in her lap. 


HOME AGAIN 87 

“ ‘There are the clothes, ma’am,’ I said. 
T do not want them.’ ” 

“And then?” asked Father Ajitonio, 
scarcely able to restrain a smile. 

“Mrs. Adams screamed, and they all 
talked very loud; and the lady said: 

“ ‘What if to-morrow we put you in the 
House of Correction?’ 

“ ‘Are Sisters there?’ I said, 

“‘Sisters! No!’ she said. ‘You are 
crazy about Sisters. No, no: but you will 
have to work there, and maybe stay for years. 
It is hke a jail.’ 

“I was very much afraid; but I did not 
say it. I answered nothing. 

“ ‘That will fetch her,’ said Mrs. Adams. 
But it did not. Still I stood there, wishing 
they would send me away; but they did not 
for a long time. And they asked me many 
things about the Mission and the Sisters. 
When they were gone at last, Mrs. Adams 
brought the things out to me, to my room, 
and she said : 

“ ‘Here, Rosa, you would better keep 


88 


HOME AGAIN 


these clothes and wear them, that is, if I do 
not send you to the House of Correction. 
I will let you try again.’ 

‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said, and nothing more. 
But very early in the morning, before it was 
light, I got up and went away. I walked 
very far, very far, until I came to a place 
where some little children were playing. 
There was a baby on the ground, and it was 
crying. 

“ ‘Do you want some one to help in the 
house?’ I said. 

“One called her mother, and she came. 
‘I want some one,’ she said. ‘I will give 
you one dollar a week.’ 

“I worked and worked there. The father 
was always drunk, and the mother was never 
at home. After four weeks I said: 

“ ‘Ma’am, will you please give me a little 
money? I have no shoes.’ 

“But she said: ‘You do not please me. 
Go away from here at once. You are not 
worth any money.’ ” 

“You’ve had a pretty hard time, Rosa,” 


HOME AGAIN 


89 


said Father Antonio with glistening eyes. 
“And when did you meet this good woman?” 
glancing kindly at Mrs. Flaherty. 

“ ’Twas the very day she left her place, 
Father,” responded Mrs. Flaherty. “The 
poor child had no place to go, and she hap- 
pened by the Eastern Grand Hotel, where 
I am dishwashing. Father. I saw her peep- 
ing in the window, and asked her would she 
like a job; for I was very busy that day. 
She was right glad to come in, and the boss 
gave me leave to keep her at a dollar and a 
half a week. She worked like a little hero, 
till one day I saw a piece in the paper about 
a great lot of people coming to the Fair 
from California and your name in it. After 
that nothing would do her but she must 
search the Fair grounds in hopes she’d see 
you there. One morning she drew her 
money, and away with her like a wild crea- 
ture. From that day till last evening I 
didn’t see a sight of her; but many and many 
a time I thought of her. Father. ’Twas my- 
self saw you this morning and I coming 


90 


HOME AGAIN 


home from five o’clock Mass. Thanks be to 
God, the poor child’s mind is at ease now, 
whatever happens in the future ! And I feel 
that everything will be well.” 

Rosa looked up wistfully into Father 
Antonio’s face. 

“And now what shall we do with you, 
child?” he asked. 

“If I might go home. Father!” she said. 

“To your father?” 

“Oh, no. Padre Antonio! No! No! Back 
to the Mission. If you will take me, I can 
work in the city for some good family, and 
so I can pay you.” 

“But, then, there may be washing and 
ironing and breadbaking, Rosa. And that 
is too hard, eh?” 

“Oh, Father, I will wash all day if I may 
only go back!” 

“Can we manage it, Mrs. Flaherty, do 
you think?” inquired the priest, turning with 
a smile to Rosa’s friend. 

And then poor Rosa knew that her cause 


was won. 


HOME AGAIN 


91 


“With the help of God, Father, I think it 
can be done,” said Mrs. Flaherty. “If 
there’s any way at all to take Rosa back to 
her own people and those she wants to be 
with, ’tis best to try it. There are hundreds 
and thousands going astray in the streets of 
Chicago to-day that would be honest and 
good girls if they had some one to look after 
them and a proper home. There’s the mak- 
ing of a fine girl in Rosa, here, and she’s 
after learning a good lesson.” 


CHAPTER IX 

THE prodigal’s RETURN 

O NE day, about two months later, the chil- 
dren were assembled in the playground 
at the Mission. They were in holiday attire, 
awaiting the arrival of good Padre Antonio, 
who was about to make his first visit since 
his return from the East, three days before. 
Yet, welcome as was their beloved pastor, 
the unusual excitement which pervaded them 
all was not entirely due to his coming. They 
were also expecting one of their number who 
for months had been mourned as lost. De- 
tained at the convent in town for a few days 
by a slight attack of illness, Rosa the prodi- 
gal was even now on her way to the Mis- 
sion, and her old companions were as eager 
to see and greet her with open arms as she 
was to meet them again. 

92 


THE PRODIGAL S RETURN 93 


Suddenly a cloud of dust appeared in the 
distance. 

“See! Father Antonio comes in the 
a^^d something else behind. It is 
the barouche!” exclaimed one of the larger 
girls, mounted on top of the stone wall. 
“Yes, it is the barouche. I see Mother in 
front, with Jose; and there is Rosa! She 
is stretching her neck out of the wagon — 
she is waving! Hurra!” 

They crowded to the gate. Father 
Antonio’s buggy had already turned off in 
the direction of the boys’ school — ^he always 
went first to his boys. In another moment 
Rosa sprang to the ground, and fell, laugh- 
ing and weeping, into the arms of her wel- 
coming friends. 

“But, Rosa, how thin you are!” 

“And how you have grown!” 

“They did not feed you very well, I think, 
at Chicago.” 

“Oh, we are so glad you are back!” 

In the midst of all this acclamation poor 
Rosa could not utter a single word. She 


94 THE PRODIGAUS RETURN 


looked above and around her — at the soft, 
blue, cloudless sky; the waving pepper-trees 
in the courtyard; across the road to the dark 
green olive-trees, under whose shade she 
would fain have rested so often during those 
days — ^now past, thank Heaven! — when she 
was tired and lonely. It seemed to her that 
she could never get her fill of gazing, so 
beautiful did they appear to her feasting 
eyes, so long deprived of what, as she had 
found when too late, made her young life 
most dear and pleasant. 

They dragged her in, through the big gate, 
and then down to the basement kitchen, 
where Sister Loreto was busily cutting the 
great white loaves into slices for the chil- 
dren’s luncheon. 

When she had been welcomed and for- 
given there, the laughing girls trooped out 
again, each with a slice of bread and honey 
in her hands. 

“Oh, this is good, girls!” said Rosa, as 
she bit into hers with her strong white teeth. 


THE PRODIGAUS RETURN 95 


“So good a thing I have not had to eat since 
I went away.” 

And then they all sat on the ground under 
the shade of the largest pepper-tree ; and the 
Sisters came, and all were merry and happy 
as could be. Rosa leaned against the trunk 
of the old tree, looking up at its feathery 
branches, and then her eyes wandered away 
till they rested on the distant hills. 

“Their old trees, full of caterpillars!” she 
exclaimed, disdainfully. “And their green 
grass, that they are always talking about! 
Girls, this is the prettiest tree, with its slim 
green leaves and its red berries, that I have 
seen since I left; and these brown hills, I 
would not give them for all their flat Chicago 
lands and parks and everything!” 

That night, after Father Antonio had 
gone, and it was recreation time again, the 
girls gathered around Rosa once more, be- 
seeching her to tell them what she had seen 
and heard. But at that time her heart was 
so full of her homecoming, and her experi- 


96 THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN 


ence abroad had been so unpleasant, that she 
could not gratify them as they would have 
desired except as regarded Mrs. Flaherty, 
whom she lauded and idealized in such a way 
as would have both amused and mortified 
the good woman, whose least fault was self- 
complacency. She very soon received a 
token of Rosa’s regard and gratitude in the 
shape of a beautiful drawn-work handker- 
chief, which she will continue to prize among 
her dearest treasures as long as she lives. 
Poor, pious soul! she has not many besides, 
save those she has laid up in heaven. 


CHAPTER X 

A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN 

T he moonlight was flooding the clearing 
all about them when Rosa’s interesting 
narrative was finished. 

“Well, Rosa!” said Mr. Page. “I do not 
know when I have enjoyed anything more 
than the story of your little journey into 
the world. And you proved yourself a 
heroine in the end.” 

“What else could I have done?” replied 
the Indian girl. “For me it was either death 
or to be back again at the Mission. It was 
like a miracle, wasn’t it?” 

“Indeed it was,” said Mrs. Page. 

“I always think of it that way,” rejoined 
Rosa. “And so thought Padre Antonio, 
God rest him!” 

“Amen,” responded the others reverently, 
97 


98 A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN 


“What would you have done, Rosa, if you 
had not met him?” asked Nellie. 

“I am afraid I should have died. But 
no — I believe I would have, in the end, gone 
to some priest and asked for a home till I 
could hear from the Mission. Now I would 
not be afraid, but then I had terror that those 
awful people would find me and maybe put 
me in prison. Now I know, of course, that 
they could not have done it. Oh! I hate to 
think of it — yet!” 

“Well, it is bed-time,” said Mr. Page, 
“and our tent is calling us. We will bid you 
good-night, Rosa.” 

But she insisted on accompanying them 
to see if they had everything they needed, 
and brought forth with pride a couple of 
candles she had made from wax-berries, fra- 
grant and yellow as gold. 

Their sleep was sweet that night ; it rained 
a little, and the pitter-patter of the drops 
upon the slanting roof of the tent was a 
pleasant lullaby. 

But when morning dawned the sun 


A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN 99 


streamed forth brightly as ever, and Rosa 
said she knew by the wind and the sky there 
would be no more rain. 

Two days passed pleasantly in short ex- 
peditions through the mountains, and, as 
Alfonso was expected next morning, the 
Pages announced their intention to depart. 

‘T would like to have you a whole week,” 
said Rosa. “Can you not stay?” 

It was explained to her that Mrs. Page 
could not afford to miss the hot baths any 
longer, though they were willing to remain 
another night if Rosa were at all timid 
alone. 

“Oh, no!” she said. “I am not afraid to 
stay' alone. I sometimes do. Tramps 
never come here — they are watched too 
closely by the foresters, and there is nothing 
to fear. I have a pistol, besides.” 

“Do you know how to use it, Rosa?” asked 
Nellie. 

“Surely I do. How foolish to have one, 
else.” 

“Who showed you how?” 


100 A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN 


“My brother — long ago, when he was 
policeman at Mesa Grande.” 

“Did you ever use it?” 

“Once I really did,” answered Rosa. 

“Will you tell us about it? Did you kill 
any one?” 

“Yes, I did,” was the calm rejoinder. 

“Oh!” exclaimed her listeners in surprise. 
But Rosa laughed. 

“Don’t think me a murderess yet, till you 
have heard,” she said. “It was one time 
when Alfonso had to go down. He was to 
stay all night, on some business, at the 
Springs, to meet the head forester there. 
So he loaded my pistol and left me. I went 
early to bed and fell very sound asleep, for 
when I began to hear sounds I could hardly 
wake myself, though I felt there was danger, 
too. I sat up and heard a pile of boxes fall 
down that Alfonso had put in the shed for 
firewood. Some campers had left them be- 
hind. Then an awful thump came against 
the kitchen door. Tt is a drunken man,’ I 
thought, ‘and he wants to get in. No thief 


A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN 101 


would make such a noise.’ I took my pistol 
in my hand and waited. I could hear the 
crunching leaves under bare feet, over and 
over, round and round the house. Then I 
thought Tt is some crazy person — crazy 
from drink — that has escaped from the 
Springs.’ They bring that kind of people 
there sometimes to get the poison of alcohol 
out of them with the hot baths. Well, I was 
very much afraid, and now, came the same 
heavy thump at the door of the room where 
I was lying. It was like some one falling 
with all his might against it. I got up and 
stood in thje middle of the room. I did not 
know what to do. That is the worst danger, 
that you cannot name, that you do not see, 
though you know it is there. My hands and 
feet were cold — I trembled like one with a 
chill.” 

“Did you still keep hold of the pistol?” 
asked Walter. 

“I did; nothing could make me drop it as 
long as I could hold it,” Rosa replied. 
“Always I had my eyes on the door, fearing 


102 A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN 


that a very strong drunken or crazy person 
might break it in after a while. People like 
that have ten times the strength of others. 
The moment it began to give way I was go- 
ing to shoot. But again all was silent. I 
sat down on my bed at last and saw then the 
wide open window. What was I to do? 
Any one could get in as soon as they found 
the window was there and open. ‘That will 
be the next thing.’ I thought. T must try 
and shut it.’ I rose up to do it, and again 
the footsteps began to go round and round. 

They came nearer and nearer and all at 
once I saw something clutch the window- 
sill and a big head peering in, and a big body 
just going to spring — and I fired. It fell 
— outside — and I fell — on my bed. All was 
still. I think I must have fainted, for I 
knew nothing till I heard the voice of Al- 
fonso calling ‘Rosa, Rosa, open the door.’ ” 

“What was it? A bear?” asked Walter. 

“A mountain lion,” rejoined Rosa. 
“One that had been prowling around for 
more than two years and no one could find 


A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN 103 


to shoot, though many had glimpses of it. 
It was the largest ever seen in these moun- 
tains. It was a beautiful creature — if such 
a thing can be beautiful. That is what they 
all said.” 

“How did Alfonso happen to come 
along?” asked Nellie. 

“The business was finished and the moon- 
light was so bright he thought he would 
rather come home. He loves to ride in the 
night. He heard the shot, and was afraid 
for me — he did not know what might be 
happening. So he hurried, and saw the 
lion stretched dead in front of the window, 
and knew what I had done.” 

“You were certainly a brave little 
woman,” said Mrs. Page. 

“What became of the skin? Did you save 
it?” asked Mr. Page. 

“It is in front of your bed in the tent,” 
said Rosa. “The largest and broadest and 
with the prettiest markings ever seen in this 
county,” said Rosa, proudly. 

“I noticed that skin the first night, and 


104 A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN 


meant to ask you about it,” continued Mr. 
Page. “I would have liked to buy it. But 
I do not suppose you would sell it, Rosa?” 

The girl smiled and shook her head. “No, 
Senor, I would not sell it — or give it — to 
my dearest friend. We mean to keep it 
always. It is the prize thing we have.” 

A short time after they heard the sound 
of a horse’s hoofs in the distance. They 
came nearer and nearer and presently a 
young man appeared, waving his hat and 
calling : 

“Ho, ye ho!” 

“It is Alfonso,” cried Rosa, running to 
meet him. “He comes sooner than I 
thought.” 

“A good-looking Indian,” said Mr. Page, 
as they watched him dismount, “and he looks 
like a good Indian.” 

“He must be that,” responded his wife, 
“or they would not haye given him such a 
responsible position.” 

Alfonso was as friendly and kind as his 
wife. He wanted the Pages to stay longer. 


A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN 105 


or to come back later and remain with them 
for a month. 

“I think our cold spring- water is as good 
as the Agua Caliente,” he said. “You 
know, Mr. Page, it has iron. People camp 
near here to drink it.” 

“I know by experience that it is very 
good, I spent a month in this neighborhood 
some years ago,” said Mrs. Page. “But we 
must be going, though we would like to re- 
turn at some future time.” 

“There will be great doings at Agua 
Caliente soon,” said Alfonso. “There will 
be a big crowd. Rosa and I must go down.” 

“What is going to happen?” asked Rosa. 

“They have given back to the Indians the 
old burying ground,” said Alfonso. “There 
was danger at any time since the going away 
from Agua Caliente that the people who 
now own it could have torn up everything 
and used it for any purpose they wished, but 
the good Padre Doyle spoke to the super- 
intendent and he obtained from the company 
that the burial-place can never be taken 


106 A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN 


from the Indians. Very soon they will go 
to fix it up, and from now it will belong to 
them only.” 

“What a good thing!” said Mr. Page. 
“As it was it seemed a desecration.” 

“From the first they had hoped they might 
buy it,” said Alfonso. “They had saved all 
they could, and white people had given, but 
there was still not near the value. Now, 
they can use that money to put everything 
in good shape, and when all is ready there 
will be a big day there. How long do you 
stay, Mr. Page?” 

“Till the middle of November, we think,” 
was the reply. 

“Very well then; you will see it. The 
Feast of All Saints they expect to go for the 
celebration and Rosa and I will go down 
also.” 

It was regretfully, but with the hope of 
soon meeting again, that the Pages parted 
from their kind host and hostess. As be- 
fore, the father and mother traveled in the 
automobile, but Walter and Nellie returned 


A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN 107 


the way they had come. Once more they 
followed the stream across the upper plateau, 
through groves of oak and clusters of syca- 
mores, and then took their way down through 
the canyons, many of which, off the beaten 
track, they had strong temptation to ex- 
plore. But the day was well toward eve- 
ning, and they feared, also, to lose their way. 
So they kept to the paths they knew, gather- 
ing armfuls of spearmint, goldenrod, and 
ferns, till they looked like woodland spirits, 
hidden under masses of fragrant green. 
Before they came in sight of the Springs, 
nestling in the cup of the hills, evening had 
begun to fall. A fitful wind sprang up, 
rustling the falling leaves that dropped, 
withered and lonely, in their path. The air 
grew sweeter with the coming of night, but 
its chill was upon them and hastened their 
lagging footsteps. The sky had faded from 
brilliant blue to dull mauve and hard cold 
gray, but along the western horizon, behind 
the tops of the mountains, it glowed an an- 
gry crimson. The wind grew fiercer and 


108 A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN 

stronger; clouds began to gather in the dis- 
tance. 

“We shall have more rain, and that very- 
soon,” said Walter. “I hope we shall not 
get it on our heads.” 

Five minutes more and they were back in 
the valley. The rain-clouds passed over it 
as quickly as they had gathered, though all 
night long the wind sang through the trees 
and lulled them to sleep, sweet and sound, 
after the pleasant fatigues of the day. 


CHAPTER XI 

A SOLEMN CEREMONY 

O N the first of November early in the 
morning a long procession of buck- 
boards, wagons, and carts might be seen ap- 
proaching the confines of Agua Caliente. 
The men carried with them picks, shovels, 
and various other tools; the women, who 
were in the minority, though there were a 
good many, seemed to be praying half aloud. 
There were little children there also, serious 
and solemn like their elders. 

For this was no picnic or joyous festivity. 
“The Children of Cupa” were returning to 
the home from which, through no fault of 
their own, but through the simplicity of 
ignorance, mistaken trust in the white man 
and his greed and injustice, they had been 
banished several years before. They were 
coming back, for a day only, to put in order 

109 


110 A SOLEMN CEREMONY 


their ancient place of graves which had been 
suffered to fall into desolation and ruin, but 
which now, their own again, they were about 
to reclaim. 

The Pages were already at the gate of the 
cemetery and, as the Indians descended from 
the vehicles, greeted several whom they had 
formerly known. They missed Dionysio, 
and Francisco, whose lots were now cast at 
a distance from their former home, and 
Mauricio, the old sacristan, whose heart had 
been centered in the church and all things 
pertaining to it, was himself lying in the 
neglected graveyard. 

Slowly and in order, led by the Padre, the 
Indians marched into the cemetery, praying 
aloud and chanting a solemn De Profundis, 
Very early that morning they had assisted 
at Mass at Pala, and now after a few pray- 
ers and hymns around the sagging cross in 
the middle of the graveyard, they dispersed 
to the work for which they had come. Cattle 
had long since broken down the rotten fences 
and trampled the graves. But with ma- 


A SOLEMN CEREMONY 111 


terials purchased with the money they had 
accumulated, the men, working with a will, 
soon put the fences straight, supplying new 
palings where they were needed, propping 
up gravestones, and carrying away the litter 
strewing the ground after the women had 
cleared the withered grasses and weeds. 
While they were busy other wagons arrived, 
from Mesa Grande, and Temecula, and Vol- 
can, and Santa Isabel, containing friends 
anxious to show their sympathy and interest 
by their presence and assistance on the oc- 
casion. With those from Volcan came Rosa 
and her husband; she had been visiting her 
people, and was on her way home. When 
all was finished the Padre once more as- 
sembled his little flock around him and held 
service over the graves of their people, speak- 
ing a few consoling words. Then the women 
produced candles which they distributed 
among the graves, each lighting one in mem- 
ory of the dead. Twilight began to fall, the 
work was finished, and solenmly as they had 
come the Indians prepared to depart. It 


112 A SOLEMN CEREMONY 


was noticeable that not one of them had wan- 
dered from the neighborhood of the cemetery 
to that of their former dwellings. No; they 
had left them forever when they turned for 
the last time from the homes of their fathers. 
Many of the old houses had been torn down, 
all of them changed, everything had been 
altered, modernized, improved. Stolidly 
and calmly, as though Agua Caliente, the 
home of their hearts, had that day been 
visited for the first time, and had for them 
neither interest nor associations, they re- 
mounted their vehicles and drove away in 
the hush of the evening, praying and sing- 
ing on their way to Pala, which now they 
had grown to regard as their home. 

With Alfonso and Rosa, who went over 
to the Pages’ cottage with the family and 
had some refreshment before resuming their 
journey, was a young Indian whom their 
friends had never before seen. 

“This, Senora,” said Rosa, addressing 
Mrs. Page, “is Manuel Arosco, the brother 


A SOLEMN CEREMONY 113 

of little Pancho, to whom you were once so 
kind.” 

Mrs. Page remembered, and welcomed 
the young man, who had recently been ap- 
pointed an assistant forester, and was going 
to live with Rosa and her husband on the 
reservation. He was very courteous and 
gentle; the young people thought he re- 
sembled their friend Dionysio, which was 
about the highest compliment they could 
have paid him. He sat for some time talk- 
ing alone with Mrs. Page, telling her sev- 
eral particulars of his brother’s last dh,ys 
which interested her very much. That eve- 
ning when the trio had resumed their journey 
Mrs. Page could not help recalling the story 
of Pancho, whom she had never forgotten, 
and whom the advent of his brother had 
brought freshly to her mind, and though the 
others had not known him his history was 
familiar to them all. It will perhaps inter- 
est our readers also; for Pancho was a gentle 
and a favored soul. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE STORY OF PANCHO 

T here had been one summer when Mrs. 

Page had gone alone to Agua Caliente, 
or rather its vicinity. For a few weeks she 
had resided at a small hotel some five miles 
distant from the Hot Springs, from which 
she could ride, every other day, for a bath 
and draught of the healing waters. She had 
chosen to do this because her physician had 
also recommended the Iron Spring in the 
vicinity, about midway between Santa Isabel 
and Agua Cahente. This was cold, spark- 
ling water flowing from a rock situated in 
a charming valley shady with oaks and lux- 
uriant with ferns. 

Mrs. Page had not been more than twenty- 
four hours at the Iron Spring when she 
noticed a swarthy, black-haired lad, half 
Mexican, half Indian, who brought the milk 

114 


THE STORY OF PANCHO 115 


mornings and evenings, and sometimes 
caught the horses for Mrs. Collins, the land- 
lady, when, as often happened, they escaped 
from the corral. He seemed a good- 
natured little fellow, with bright, laughing 
eyes, and dimples in both cheeks, giving him 
a girlish appearance, and because of which 
the other Mexicans and Indians, who 
swarmed about the place, gave him the nick- 
name of “la Nina” (the little girl). 

But Pancho did not appear to mind their 
teasing, and they did a great deal of it, on 
several occasions even going so far as to tilt 
over his milk buckets as he- carried them in 
either hand, gayly whistling, ''Adiosf^ or 
‘'Sobre Las OhlasT which invariably 
heralded his arrival at the Iron Spring 
Hotel. Once when a fractious colt, that 
was wont to work destruction among the 
good woman’s cabbages, overturned the pails 
in his headlong course through the garden, 
the poor lad was obliged to return the two 
long miles to his valley home. But he went 
on the colt’s back, only to gallop trium- 


116 THE STORY OF PANCHO 


phantly into the demesne, with two demi- 
johns containing the milk fastened pannier- 
wise’ on either side of the improvised sad- 
dle, an old gray woolen blanket. 

“I wonder, Pancho, that you bothered to 
use a saddle at all,” said Mrs. Page admir- 
ingly, as he jumped to the ground. 

“For two theengs, Senora,” he replied, 
looking up archly. “One, I break heem 
while I ride heem; two, I am ’fraid to smishe 
the bottells; so I place the blankait for it to 
be some soft.” 

“And your mother? Was she not angry 
with you for having spilled the milk?” con- 
tinued Mrs. Page, walking by his side in the 
direction of the kitchen, whither he was 
bound. 

The boy’s face changed and saddened. 

“Since one year my mothair be dead, 
Senora,” he answered; “but she have naver 
been angree with me. She have been most 
veree kind to me and Manuel and Sylvio 
and Elena.” 

“They are your brothers and sisters?” 


THE STORY OF PANCHO 117 


“Si, Senora.” 

“And you all live together?^* 

“Si, Sefiora.” 

“You are the youngest?” 

“Si, Senora. You must come some time. 
You like buttermilk? Elena, she makes 
veree good butter; and the milk then is veree 
nice, so sweet to drink.” 

“Thanks! I should like to go. You 
have a little farm, I suppose?” 

“A farem — what is that?” 

“A little ranch, perhaps I should have 
said?” 

The boy straightened himself, and his eyes 
flashed as he replied: 

“Si, Senora; a veree leetle one. But once 
all this place” — with a wide sweep of the 
arm — “belong to our familee.” 

His glance and gesture seemed to embrace 
the whole of the surrounding valley, so ex- 
pressive were they ; and Mrs. Page smilingly 
re-echoed his words. 

"'All this place!” she said, making a very 
comprehensive gesture. 


118 THE STORY OF PANCHO 


he answered, gravely. “About 
five thousand a-kers you say?” 

“Five thousand acres!” exclaimed Mrs. 
Page, inwardly commenting on that faculty 
for exaggeration which she had often heard 
as characteristic of the Mexicans, and smil- 
ing involuntarily as she looked down at the 
ragged trousers and bare feet. 

“You are not a pure Indian, then, 
Pancho?” she said. 

“No, Senora, only my mother was a 
Cupena of Cupa. My father Mexican.” 

“Ah, that is why you did not go with the 
others — to Pala?” 

“Perhaps. We have never lived at Agua 
Caliente, nore my mother, since she is mar- 
ried. I have been often staying there 
though, before the white people have driven 
the old ones from Cupa.” 

They had come to the door of the kitchen 
now, and, without further remark, Pancho 
entered, Mrs. Page retracing her steps. 
But the boy interested her, particularly 
after she had heard from her hostess that 


THE STORY OF PANCHO 119 


the story of the five thousand acres was 
strictly true, and that the little milk-vender 
was indeed a scion of one of the proudest 
houses of Spain, many of whose sons, sol- 
diers of fortune, came over to seek fame and 
gold in old Mexico and that portion of the 
country now known as Lower California. 
"'Noblesse Oblige'^ often recurred to her as 
she watched the unconscious dignity of car- 
riage and manner in this young Banchero 
of the valley. 

When Saturday came Mrs. Page be- 
thought her of making ready for Sunday. 
On inquiry, she found that she might have 
a horse and light cart to take her to the 
small village four miles away, where Mass 
was sometimes said; the contingency de- 
pending on the arrangements of the old 
Spanish priest, who had several parishes, 
fifty or sixty miles apart. 

“Blit I cannot drive,” she said. “Could 
you not spare a man, there are so many 
about?” 

“They all sneak off on Sundays,” replied 


120 THE STORY OF PANCHO 


her hostess. “You know they only stay 
here during the day, taking care of the horses 
and tending the garden. We don’t pay 
them much; some of them don’t get any- 
thing but their grub. They live on frijoles, 
and they’re about the cheapest things we can 
give them. They stay at home Sundays. 
Most of them live up the valley.” 

“As they are all Catholics, doubtless they 
go to Mass also. Would not Juan or Diego 
take me up on their way to church?” asked 
Mrs. Page. 

Mrs. Collins laughed the laugh of superior 
though pitying wisdom. 

“Hm!” she said. “Juan and Diego drink 
too much mescal of Saturday nights to think 
about church Sundays. Besides, you can’t 
never tell. Sometimes the priest is there, 
and sometimes he isn’t; so you just have to 
take your chances.” 

Mrs. Page was disappointed. Suddenly 
her face brightened. 

“But little Pancho — surely he will drive 
me?” 


THE STORY OF PANCHO 121 


“There he is now; you can ask him,” said 
Mrs. Collins, retiring to her kitchen. 

Pancho seemed glad of the opportunity 
to show his skill as a driver; for in answer to 
Mrs. Page’s request he said eagerly: 

“Si, Senora. I like it veree mooch. You 
will see then how I can make that loco run 
— ^no, fly to the chapel.” 

“What do you mean by loco, Pancho?” 
she asked, always pleased to hear him talk 
in his pretty foreign way. 

“That horse: he is loco — crazy. He eat 
some what you call weed. He get crazy — 
he act crazy. 'Not mooch good; but he do 
what I say — go veree fast. Padre Antonio, 
he take me once with him to see sick man. 
He say he like me to drive all the time.” 

“When was that, Pancho?” 

“Three years now — when I had twelve 
years. To-morrow I get fifteen.” 

“Indeed! We will make a little birthday 
party of it. And you are fifteen? You do 
not look so old.” 

“No? But I grow and I am strong,” 


122 THE STORY OF PANCHO 


stretching his arm to show the muscle. “To- 
morrow I come early with the milk. I get 
up at four, I milk the cows, I am here at 
six; then after breakfast we go.” 

“At what hour will Mass be said?” 

“At eight o’clock, if it be. We cannot 
know that. But it will be a well pleasant 
ride, Senora.” 


CHAPTER XIII 

THE STORY OF PANCHO {Continued) 

T he next morning Pancho was on hand 
very early, according to promise. 
Mrs. Page heard him whistling ‘'Sobre Las 
Ohlasr as he trudged past her window on 
his way to the kitchen. Breakfast dis- 
patched, she found him waiting, with the 
horse in readiness ; the loco contentedly 
whisking flies with his tail, while Pancho 
munched a crust of bread. She insisted on 
his going back to the kitchen for a cup of 
coffee, but he soon rejoined her. 

“Does the Senora like my hat?” he asked, 
with a beaming smile that showed his white 
teeth, as he climbed up beside her. 

“Indeed ! was admiring your sombrero 
before you spoke,” replied Mrs. Page. 
“You should always wear it. It makes you 
look very handsome.” 

123 


124 THE STORY OF PANCHO 


The boy opened his eyes, flecking the 
horse’s sides with a silver-mounted whip as 
he answered: 

“That would not be well, Senora. It is 
of my father; fiftee dollar he paid. My 
brother Juan, he lend it to me when I tell 
him I like well to wear it for to look good 
with the Senora. It is now his. The black 
velvet theengs, they are my own; but my 
father have worn them too, when he have 
been a boy like me, but with more money 
than we now. The buttons, they come from 
Spain; they are old, veree old, but prettee. 
Don’t you think? This wheep, it is from 
my grandfather, Don Filipo Orvedo de 
Arosco. We save it — we do not use it; but 
I like the Senora mooch. My brother, he 
let me have it ; and the red silk handkerchief. 
See!” 

“Oh, thank you, Pancho!” said Mrs. Page, 
really touched. “I had no idea you liked 
me so well. I am sure I appreciate it very 
much. I fear your young friends will be 
envious of you.” 


THE STORY OF PANCHO 125 


“The boys at Santa Isabel, you mean?” 
he asked, with a gesture of infinite contempt. 
“Oh, no ! They will make fun of me. They 
are not of my friends at all, but I do not 
care.” Then timidly, as with an after- 
thought, '^Some of them hoys are not bad.” 

As they sped on through the crisp, cool 
air of the morning, the bluest of blue skies 
above them, wild-fiowers dotting the green 
carpeted valley near the silvery, ribbon-hke 
strip of water, along whose bank the road 
lay, a silence fell upon them. Mrs. Page, 
glancing at the boy beside her, could not 
help wishing that it might be hers to lift him 
to the position she felt sure was his by right, 
and which she had no doubt, with proper 
training and education, he would nobly fill. 
As she thus mused, he turned his large, 
dark eyes upon her with a question in 
them. 

“The Senora is perhaps sad?” he inquired. 
“It may be that her home is far, or that her 
husband has died not long ago?” 

Mrs. Page smiled, somewhat quizzically. 


126 THE STORY OF PANCHO 


“No, Pancho,” she replied. “I was only 
thinking of some one whom I should like 
very much to help along in the world.” 

“The people are going in. We be in good 
time,” said Pancho as they neared the 
church. 

It stood on the crest of a little hill, a rude 
adobe structure, surmounted by a cross. 
The dooryard was lined with Mexicans and 
Indians, the women attired in every color 
of the rainbow. There were some pretty 
girls among them, and some of the young 
men were also quite handsome. The in- 
terior of the church could not well have been 
more primitive than it was. A few old 
women were crouched upon the earthen 
floor, telling their beads ; one of them croon- 
ing aloud. Mrs. Page thought the sweet 
Spanish monotone very quaint and musical. 

A bell rang; the priest came out from be- 
hind a perforated screen, which served the 
double purpose of sacristy and confessional. 
He was an old man, with half-shut eyes and 
meditative countenance, a long white beard 


THE STORY OF PANCHO 127 


sweeping his breast — a true Spaniard, per- 
haps an Andalusian, with fair skin, a little 
florid, like some Irish types. He looked as 
though he might have slipped, a hermit of 
the early ages, from some old picture. Mrs. 
Page heard afterward that he was a saint, 
a great theologian, and a most devout stu- 
dent of the Scriptures, spending the greater 
part of his nights poring over the Gospels. 

The people flocked in. The stranger was 
offered a seat on one of the few stone benches, 
which she gratefully accepted; next her an 
Indian woman held a small infant, which lay 
with wide-open eyes and never a whimper 
during the hour and a half of the service. 
For after the Low Mass was finished, a 
few people communicating, the holy man 
preached for an hour. The people were 
most attentive, even the children preserving 
a rigid silence. 

When the congregation dispersed, she 
found Pancho gravely waiting beside the 
buggy, seemingly paying no attention to 
sundry remarks, in audible tones, proceeding 


128 THE STORY OF PANCHO 


from a group of vagabonds in the rear of the 
vehicle. “El Bonito,” “El Vaquero,” “Don 
Pancho de Arosco/’ were sarcastically flung 
at intervals from the throats of the mischiev- 
ous youngsters of whom Mrs. Page had pre- 
dicted envy. But Pancho did not heed 
them. After assisting his passenger to her 
seat, he sprang up beside her, and they soon 
left the httle hamlet behind them. 

“I did not understand the sermon at all,” 
said the lady; “I know so little Spanish. 
What was it about, Pancho?” 

“Fo no se/^ was the reply, with a shrug 
of the shoulders. “I came out. It is very 
well for those who can imderstand; but for 
me — well, it is like St. Teresa, — ^my father 
al-ways read in that book. It is for well- 
learned people that Padre Moreno should be 
appointed, not those of Santa Isabel and 
Volcan. My father, he said so too. He 
was better learned than I, and his father 
better than he. So it goes. No; I did not 
hear, I came out.” 


THE STORY OF PANCHO 129 


“But you always go to Mass on Sundays, 
Pancho, when you can?” 

“No, Senora,” he answered. “I go not 
often. We not know when it be; it is then 
veree far to walk.” 

“And you say yoiu* prayers night and 
morning, do you not, Pancho?” 

“Not al-ways, Senora. Sometimes. 
Mornings, I too in a hurry, — first to milk the 
cows ; then to go to the Springs by seven. It 
is far — ^two miles. Nights, it is late when I 
come home; then I too tired — I forget my 
prayers, Senora.” 

“But you might say them going and com- 
ing. Eh, Pancho?” 

“Si, Senora.” 

“And will you?” 

“Si, Senora. So my mother say to do, and 
sometimes I do; then I forget.” 

Mrs. Page remained five weeks at the 
Springs. During that time she discovered 
that Pancho was ambitious to learn to write 
English, which he could read a little — with 


130 THE STORY OF PANCHO 


the idea that he might thus be enabled to ob- 
tain a situation and make a fortune, with a 
view to buying back his paternal acres, now 
in the hands of a syndicate. During his in- 
tervals of leisure he practised in an old copy- 
book, and soon learned to write very cred- 
itably. 

The day came at last for her departure. 
She had sent to the city for some blotting- 
pads and good pens and ink, which, with a 
fine red silk necktie, she presented to Pancho 
when she called him to her window to say 
good-bye. He was very grateful, and 
seemed much affected, as indeed Mrs. Page 
was also. 

“Pancho,” she said, “if there is anything I 
can do for you, either now or in the future, 
let me know* I will give you my address; 
then you can always find me.” 

"^Gracias, Senora!” he replied. Putting 
his hand in his vest pocket, he drew forth the 
brown lining of one-half of a Scapular. 

“A Scapular!” exclaimed Mrs. Page, joy- 


THE STORY OF PANCHO 131 


fully. “You wear Our Lady’s Scapular! 
Shall I send you one, Panchito?” 

“Si,” he replied; “if it will not too much 
trouble the good Senora, I should like. It is 
now some eight months that I have worn it 
out.” 

“Oh, I shall be very glad, my dear, good 
Pancho I And I hope you will always send 
to me when you want one. In that way I 
shall know that you are still wearing it, like 
a good boy, and that you still remember me 
and my visit here.” 

“That is what I like, Senora,” he an- 
swered, as for the last time he said, in his own 
quaint way: ""AdiosT 

Upon her return home Mrs. Page lost no 
time in procuring a pair of Scapulars, with 
a silver medal of the Immaculate Conception 
attached, for which, in her neat, methodical 
manner, she made two pairs of chamois-skin 
covers, enclosing the Scapulars in one, in or- 
der that Pancho might thus be made aware 
of the purpose for which they were intended. 


132 THE STORY OF PANCHO 


These she sent with a short note. In due 
time she received an answer, beautifully writ- 
ten, and worded precisely as follows: 

“Respectable Senora: I thank you for 
the Escapularios you have sent to me this 
week. I have put them on my shoulders, 
and the covers in a box wich is little, wich 
I keep in a box where is the velvet theengs 
and wheep, and red silk hancerchief of my 
father, I will send, as you say, when I need 
agen. 

“Your servant and friend, 

“Francisco Arosco.'” 

Two years passed. One day she received 
a letter from Pancho, asking for another pair 
of Scapulars, and telling her that he could 
now read and understand English very well, 
as his language showed. But he could not 
yet see his way to emancipation, although he 
was no longer a milk-carrier, but had as- 
sumed the more responsible position of 
hostler of the Iron Spring, at the munificent 
salary of twenty dollars a month. Pleased 
and gratified, she sent him this time a beauti- 


THE STORY OF PANCHO 133 


ful pair of Scapulars, accompanied by an ex- 
quisitely painted Agnus Dei, 

Again an interval, and one afternoon in 
winter her little maid entered with a letter, 
but the writing was not that of Pancho. She 
opened it and read: 

“Las Palmas, Nov. 2., ’90. 
“To La Senora Page: 

“Honored Senora: — This is to write 
that Pancho, my brother, is died since last 
Tuesday, of dropsy, which he has been sick 
four months. He is full of water, and his 
arms and legs swell very big. He is not 
complain to die. He say to write you when 
he is dead that he have wear those Escapu- 
larios till now, and the cover is not quite 
wore; and I have put on him from the box, 
where he have keep it, the new cover, and 
he die that way. He say to tell you he 
have every day say his prayers in the morn- 
ing and night, as you tell him — that same 
way as you tell him, coming and going. He 
have not forget you, he say. We are much 
grief ; for he was good and very tall — more 
than six feet; we think he grow too fast. If 
I find, if you write to me, that you are at 
the same place where you have been — for 


134 THE STORY OF PANCHO 


I do not like to lose it — I send you the same 
red neck hankerchief that you have said was 
pretty, that my brother Pancho wear. He 
have ask me to send this. At first I say no, 
I not like ; but he say it was his, and I know 
that. It was of our father and grand- 
father — it came from Old Spain. I know 
you will like to have it. I have wash it, 
very careful; the silk is so fine it looks like 
new. My brother have care for no young 
girls. I think if he have live, and have learn 
much, he have been a priest; but I do not 
know, he have never said so. I hope you 
not forgotten of him, and if you write I will 
send you that red hankerchief. 

“Your servant and friend, 

“Manuel Arosco.” 

“My poor Pancho!” murmured Mrs. 
Page, as, with her quick fancy and tender, 
womanly retrospection, she saw once more 
the lovely valley of Las Palmas, and the boy 
stepping buoyantly along in the early morn- 
ing, or trudging wearily homeward through 
the darkness or in the bright southern moon- 
light; but always softly and fervently pray- 
ing “that same way as you tell him — coming 
and going.” “My poor Pancho!” she ex- 


THE STORY OF PANCHO 135 


claimed; and the tears fell upon the unfolded 
letter. “There was love and welcome before 
you in heaven, and somewhere in its many 
mansions very close to Our Lady surely a 
pleasant place has been found for you where 
your gentle heart and innocent soul may love 
and be at peace forevermore.” She sent for 
Pancho’s memorial gift, his treasured silk 
handkerchief, which still hangs on the wall of 
her little oratory beneath the crucifix. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE FLOWER OF THE MISSION 

i tf^HERE is a new family of Indians here,” 
JL said Walter to his mother one morn- 
ing. “They are awfully nice people, Mother. 
I have never seen them before.” 

“Where do they live and what do they do?” 
asked Mrs. Page. 

“They take care of the farm and the 
vegetable garden. There are a father and 
mother and two boys and a girl. The father 
has rheumatism very badly, and goes to the 
bath every day. The mother looks strong, 
and the boys are fine, strapping fellows.” 

“Are they from Pala?” asked Mrs. Page. 
“We ought to know them if they are.” 

“They are strangers to me,” said Walter. 
“They are living in that old adobe on the 
other side of the stream.” 

136 


FLOWER OF THE MISSION 137 


That evening Walter came with more in- 
formation regarding the new arrivals. 

“Felipo, at the baths, has told me some- 
thing of those Indians, Mother,” he said. 
“They belong at Temecula. They have al- 
ways kept a great deal to themselves, Felipo 
says. Somehow, though, they were not un- 
sociable; the people looked up to them in a 
way. Their name is Gateya Ruiz. He 
says they are splendid people, though they 
had an awfully bad ancestor.” 

“What did he do?” 

“He killed his own daughter. Felipo 
says she was a martyr.” 

“A martyr!” exclaimed Mrs. Page. 

“Yes, and that is why everybody thinks 
them different from the rest. Since that 
time they have only had one daughter in the 
family, and she has always been called Maria 
Consolacion, which was the name of the mar- 
tyr.” 

“I am very curious about this,” said Nel- 
lie, who though apparently reading had been 
listening to her brother. 


138 FLOWER OF THE MISSION 


“So am I,” rejoined her mother. “It is a 
little strange, isn’t it?” 

Their curiosity was destined to be grati- 
fied. 

Next morning a timid knock came to the 
door. Mrs. Page opened it, and saw upon 
the threshold a young and comely Indian 
girl with delicate, refined features, and eyes 
like those of a deer, so soft and brown and 
pleading. 

“I am come for the wash, Senora,” she 
said. “From now on we take care of the 
laundry, instead of the German people, who 
are gone.” 

“What is your name?” asked Mrs. Page. 
“I do not believe we know you.” 

“No, Senora,” was the reply. “We are 
not long from Temecula. I am called 
Maria Consolacion Gateya Ruiz.” 

Walter came forth from the alcove where 
he had been cleaning his gun, and Nellie 
turned from her dish-washing at the intelli- 
gence the words of the girl conveyed. They 


FLOWER OF THE MISSION 139 


both thought the girl remarkably sweet and 
attractive. 

“Come in; I will be ready in a few mo- 
ments/’ said Mrs. Page, very well aware that 
while she was making the laundry-list Wal- 
ter and TsTellie would improve their oppor- 
tunity. And so they did. Not on that first 
occasion, however, but subsequently, when 
they became better acquainted, did they 
question her on the subject of “the mar- 
tyr.” She modestly affirmed what Felipo 
had said, and offered to bring them the story 
as it had been written down by one of the 
Padres. 

“It was first in Spanish,” she said, “but 
at the Mission Sister Loreto asked me to 
bring it, and though it was very much worn 
out, and the ink faded, she turned it into 
English, and had it typewritten. One copy 
she kept, and one she gave to us. I will 
fetch it, if you like, and you can read it for 
yourselves.” 

She came, in a day, with the precious man- 


140 FLOWER OF THE MISSION 


uscript, asking permission to hear it read 
with the others. 

“I am never tired of reading it myself,’" 
she said, “but I like better to hear it read by 
some one who knows English well.” 

Mr. Page then read the story aloud. It 
proved most pathetic and interesting. We 
hope our young readers will think the same. 

Maria Consolacion could not remember 
the time when the Mission Fathers had not 
been in the valley. Her first childish recol- 
lection was of the huge adobe building, with 
its graceful tower outlined against the bril- 
liant clear blue of the sky, as she lay under 
the pepper-tree, on her soft couch of last 
year’s withered grass, waiting till Manuela, 
her foster-mother, should have done her task 
at the loom, to come to her with a bowl of 
parched corn and a tortilla dipped in goat’s 
milk, for the midday meal. As she grew 
older, both the F athers and Manuela always 
laid great stress upon the fact that she was a 
Christmas child, born at midnight, when the 
Mission bells in the tower were joyfully ring- 


FLOWER OF THE MISSION 141 


ing in the glad tidings of the birth of Christ, 
the King and Saviour. 

Maria was a favorite with all. Gentle, 
docile, modest, pious; anxious and quick to 
learn all womanly, useful arts; and at eve- 
ning, when work was over, finding her great- 
est pleasure in kneeling before the Blessed 
Sacrament, she well deserved the title that 
had been given her by old Padre Junipero — 
“the Flower of the Mission.” 

The days glided peacefully on until Maria 
was fifteen. Padre Junipero, who spent his 
holy life in going from one mission to an- 
other, had walked from Monterey to San 
Diego, in spite of his ulcerated leg; and had 
only smiled when his brother friars had tried 
to persuade him that he would shorten his 
days by this folly. It grieved Maria’s ten- 
der heart to think that he who was so kind to 
all should not be more careful of himself; 
and, lying awake in her rude couch the night 
before his departure for San Juan Capis- 
trano, she bethought her of a wonderful salve 
made by Manuela, who had a quantity stored 


142 FLOWER OF THE MISSION 


behind the teepee, in the tule-roof. Rising 
softly — for her shyness would not permit her 
to let any one know what she was going to 
do — she placed some nf the salve in a small, 
rude box made of bark; and then, stealing 
forth, she ran swiftly along the circuitous 
path till she came to the clump of mustard- 
trees through which the good Padre must 
pass on his way from the Mission. She had 
not long to wait. It was just dawn, the 
little birds breaking altogether into sud- 
den song, when she saw him parting the 
branches. He was saying the Rosary. 

^^Ave Maria/^ he said aloud, articulating 
the rest of the “Hail Mary” under his 
breath. '"Sancta Maria^ was said in the 
same way. To the girl, waiting there in the 
shadow of the mustard-trees, it seemed like a 
heavenly chant. He did not see her until 
she threw herself at his feet, holding up the 
box. 

“Ah! gentle Father,” she said, “take this 
salve for your poor leg. It is of great vir- 
tue, and will help you on your journey.” 


FLOWER OF THE MISSION 143 


The Father received it and replied: 

“Thou art a kind and thoughtful little 
maiden, Maria Consolacion, — for it is by thy 
baptismal name that I will ever call thee. I 
will use the ointment, and shall ask Our Lord 
to give thee that virtue of which thou shalt 
most have need. Lift up thy head, my 
daughter.” 

The maiden did as he bade her, and the 
saintly monk gazed for one brief moment 
into her clear and innocent eyes ; then a won- 
derful light seemed to enter his own, as he 
said: 

“Strength, my daughter, — strength and 
courage thou shalt need and shalt desire ; and 
the Lord will give both unto thee.” 

So saying, once more replacing his hands 
in the wide sleeves of his habit, his long 
rosary held between his fingers, the good 
Father passed on; and Maria lingered in the 
pathway until she could no longer hear the 
sweetly intoned Maria^ and ^^Sancta 

Maria' as they softly rose and fell on the air 
of the morning. Then she hurried back to 


144 FLOWER OF THE MISSION 


the tent, from which neither her father nor 
Manuela knew she had been absent. 

Gateya, the father of Maria, had never 
been a fervent Christian. As a rule, the 
California Indians were less barbarous than 
their brethren in other parts of the New 
World; but Gateya had in him all the ele- 
ments of the warlike savage. The Mission 
Fathers had shown him exceptional kind- 
ness, both by reason of his importance 
among his people, and because of their de- 
sire to gain his entire adherence to the Faith. 
Moreover, they hoped that the beautiful dis- 
position and pious devotion of his daughter 
would in time soften and transform his sav- 
age nature. As an instance of his indocility, 
although his name had been changed in bap- 
tism to that of Sebastian, and to his daugh- 
ter had been given that of Maria Consola- 
cion, he never addressed her save by her In- 
dian name of Atibia (poor little one) ; nor 
would he, except to the Fathers, of whom he 
stood in some awe, answer to any but Gateya 
(round head), which means stubborn — and 


FLOWER OF THE 3IISSION 145 


stubborn he was, as the girl found to her sor- 
row on the evening of the very day when she 
had received the blessing of Father Junipero 
as he went on his way to San Juan Capis- 
trano. 

Gateya, while he was in some measure 
proud of the favor with which Maria was re- 
garded by the Fathers, still entertained and 
nourished a jealous fear lest their influence 
over her should supersede his own. For he 
loved her in his own fierce way; and had long 
planned a course of action regarding her, of 
which only her tender years had hitherto pre- 
vented the execution. 

Sixty miles away, in the heart of the moun- 
tains, dwelt another tribe, who had not as yet 
embraced Christianity. The mother and 
grandmother of Gateya had come of this 
tribe, and his relations with them were close. 
After long dehberation he had concluded to 
cast his lot with them, marrying his daugh- 
ter to one of the chiefs, and thus removing 
her from the control and counsels of the 
Fathers of the Mission. That evening 


146 FLOWER OF THE MISSION 


Manuela being absent, he resolved to make 
known his intention. Maria had just re- 
turned from the chapel, where the Indians 
were accustomed to recite night prayers in 
common. Gateya sat in the door of his 
teepee. 

“My daughter,” he said, “I have a com- 
mand for thee.” 

“From the Fathers?” asked the girl. 

“Not so — from myself,” was the reply. 
“I can trust thee not to reveal what I am 
about to tell thee?” 

“Surely, my father.” 

“Hear me, then. I have long felt a de- 
sire within me to leave this place and go into 
the country of my mother, there to end my 
days out of sight of those intruders who have 
invaded and taken what of right belongs to 
us alone. Thou art almost a woman: it is 
time for thee to marry. Here thou art but 
a slave: there thou shalt wed with the son of 
a chief and be a princess of the tribe. Soon 
it will be time to look for the first crown of 
snow on the height of the far Cuyamaca; 


FLOWER OF THE MISSION 147 


therefore, child, it behooves us even now to 
be gone.” 

“But, my father,” cried the frightened 
girl, “what do the Fathers say?” 

“Are we indeed slaves, then?” angrily 
shouted Gateya. “Is it not enough that 
they have taken from us our lands, and have 
come with their strange customs and strange 
faith — ^which I, for one, do not want — to 
change everything from the old fashion of 
our people? Must we also ask their leave 
if we choose to find another home with our 
own kindred?” 

“But, father,” pleaded the girl, “they have 
not taken our lands ; only taught us how bet- 
ter to cultivate them, and to live as the 
Christians do. They have brought us to the 
religion of Christ, who died on the Cross to 
save us ; and our braves no longer think only 
of war and bloodshed, but are fast learning 
to lead lives of peace and virtue.” 

“It is as I feared, girl!” thundered the 
Indian. “It is they and not I, thy father, 
who are first with thee. I swear to thee that 


148 FLOWER OF THE MISSION 


from this moment I shall not worship a God 
who died on a gibbet; and I swear to thee 
also that before another moon shall rise thou 
and I shall be safe with my mother’s people 
in the heart of the Cuyamacas. To thy bed, 
and remember that what I have said I will 
do. It is now the first quarter of the moon. 
It will be full on the night of their feast of 
Christmas. On that night we depart.” 

With these words Gateya flung himself 
away from the teepee, and strode into the 
open. 

It was late that night before Maria slept. 
She knew how irrevocable was her father’s 
purpose, and felt that from it there was no 
escape. She knew also that the Fathers 
could not and would not prevent him from 
fulfilling his intention with regard to her, 
and her heart was torn with conflicting emo- 
tions. At first she thought of hiding her- 
self ; but where could she take refuge that he 
would not find her, sooner or later? Then 
she thought of telling Manuela, or running 
in the morning to impart the terrible news 


FLOWER OF THE MISSION 149 


to Padre Augustino, her kind confessor. 
But the honor of the Indian rose uppermost 
when she bethought that she had promised 
not to reveal the secret imparted to her. In 
the gray dawn she fell asleep, and dreamed 
of Father Junipero and his counsel. Once 
more she heard his kindly voice saying: 
“Strength and courage, my daughter, thou 
shalt need and shalt desire; and Our Lord 
will give both unto thee.’' She awoke and 
was comforted. 

It was Christmas Eve. Maria sat on the 
floor of the tent, her head in her hands. 
Her little bundle lay on the ground beside 
her. Her father came to the doorway. 

“My daughter,” he said, and his tones 
were harsh. “I have something to settle 
with Iswanona, the brother of Manuela. 
When the moon passes the highest point of 
the Mission tower, go forth, and keep well in 
the shadows. Wait for me at the base of the 
hill, behind the church. Before dawn we 
shall be many miles on our way. What is 


150 FLOWER OF THE MISSION 


left behind here shall be for Manuela.” 

Without another word he left her, know- 
ing well that he would be obeyed. 

The rays of the full moon were gilding 
the tower of the Mission as Maria, lifting 
the door of the tent, passed out into the 
night. A brisk walk of half an hour brought 
her to the church, where, through the deep 
embrasured window of the nave, she could 
see the light that burned before the Blessed 
Sacrament. 

“Ah!” she thought, “the crib with the dear 
little Infant is there in front of the altar! 
For the first time I did not help to prepare 
it. Alas! I shall never help again. To- 
morrow will be my birthday, as it was that 
of the Divine Child; and I shall be far, far 
from here.” 

Indians do not give way to grief: she 
wiped two furtive tears from her eyes. Oh, 
for one glance at the Infant in His cradle, 
for one prayer at the altar’s foot! She 
looked about her: there was nobody in sight; 
all were asleep. Even her father could not 


FLOWER OF THE MISSION 151 


blame her for that parting prayer. With 
a sudden, swift motion she darted through 
the leathern curtains that hung in front of 
the vestibule — in those primitive days it was 
not necessary to lock or bar the doors. Soon 
she was kneeling before the gaily decorated 
crib, lost in an ecstasy of sorrow, her rapt 
soul conscious only of one prayer, repeated 
and again repeated: “Thy strength and 
Thy courage are my need and my desire; 
grant them to me, O Lord!” 

And now there appeared a face at the win- 
dow, an evil face, whose owner, attracted by 
the sound of that sad, imploring voice, was 
eager to hear more and yet afraid to enter. 
Hark! What was that? He could hear, 
but in the dim light of that single lamp could 
see no one. The child was speaking to her 
Lord. 

“Father,” she murmured, “I am ready. 
But Thou must go before me to prepare the 
way. Into the night and the silence I will 
follow Thee, and Thou wilt be my Guide 
and my Helper.” 


152 FLOWER OF THE MISSION 


The evil face disappeared. 

“Ha!” cried Gateya, sliding to the ground. 
“The coward, the false-tongued speaks to 
Padre Augustino. Atibia has betrayed me, 
and the Father’s going forth will be a signal 
to the others to follow. Shades of my 
fathers, grant that this hand be swift and 
sure!” 

Once more he crouched beneath the win- 
dow, but the voice had ceased. While he 
watched, with the eye of a wild beast thirst- 
ing for its prey, to see the form of the priest 
issue forth from the door behind the altar, 
he did not hear the fall of the leathern cur- 
tains as Maria walked out into exile. 

She reached the foot of the hill; her 
father was not there. 

“I will go up a little way,” she said, “and 
then rest. The moon is so bright he will see 
me when he comes.” 

Her heart was no longer heavy; with 
quick, agile steps she began to climb the 
steep eminence. Her soul was full of faith 


FLOWER OF THE MISSION 153 


and hope, born of her fervent and oft- 
repeated prayer. 

Suddenly a cloud crossed the moon, then 
another, and another: it was the rainy season, 
and a storm was coming on. 

The watcher beneath the window grew im- 
patient. No priest came forth from the lit- 
tle door behind the altar to climb the hillside, 
to fire the dry brush upon its summit as a 
signal to the others, as Gateya had imagined 
was contemplated by those to whom he 
fancied his daughter had betrayed him. But 
see! There is some one not far from the 
base, ascending rapidly — ^now pausing, now 
looking backward, as if in expectation. In 
some way the monk has circumvented him; 
and the savage springs quick as thought 
from his ambush, glides along the wall of 
the church, and now, in the thick of the 
shadows — for the clouds are heavy — he too 
begins the ascent. It is very dark as, falling 
on one knee, he draws the pointed, poison- 
tipped arrow from his bow, and sends it with 


154 FLOWER OF THE MISSION 


a whiz into the body of the dim figure on the 
ascent in front of him. 

A shriek rings out upon the air — ^the 
shriek of a woman. In the sudden flood of 
moonlight that bursts upon him, Gateya 
sees his daughter fall to the earth, pierced 
to the heart by that weapon whose wound 
is death. 

With a wild cry he flings his arms above 
his head and rushes like a demon down the 
hillside, into the valley, along the white road 
to the sea, where weeks after they found him, 
half eaten by the fishes on the shore of Mis- 
sion Bay. 

And now the bells from the Mission tower 
ring out full and clear for the Midnight 
Mass; sounding in their joyful peal a sweet 
requiem for Maria Consolacion; and the 
angels, singing "'Gloria in Ewcelsis/^ bear a 
joyful welcome to the Indian girl, to whom 
the Lord has granted the desire of her heart, 
who will spend — O happy maiden! — her 
Christmas in heaven. 


FLOWER OF THE MISSION 155 


“That is very beautiful,” said Mrs. Page, 
when her husband had finished the recital. 
“Maria Consolacion indeed deserved to be 
called ‘a martj^r.’ And you are named for 
her, my child? How favored you are to be 
so called.” 

“Yes, Senora,” was the reply. “And 
always I try to be good, like her. Some-, 
times I pray to her. I think she is a saint.” 

“There is no doubt of it,” said Mr. Page. 
“She certainly died for the Faith.” 

The Indian girl wrapped the manuscript 
carefully in a covering of oiled silk which 
Sister Loreto had given her, then in paper, 
and tied it neatly, as it had been before. “I 
take care of it,” she said, smiling, “in my lit- 
tle trunk. I keep it in a box, and it is not 
for every one I bring it out to read. But 
you are all so kind and such good people that 
I love you to see it.” 

As she walked slowly away, her small head 
bent under its wealth of heavy black braids, 
her eyes downcast as they usually were, ex- 


156 FLOWER OF THE MISSION 


cept at rare intervals when she lifted them 
in gratitude or pleasure, the Pages thought 
she might well sit for a picture of that other 
Maria who had so bravely yielded her young 
life to God. 

During the remainder of their stay at 
Agua Caliente they saw a good deal of her, 
and were glad to learn, before they left, that 
the baths had proved very beneficial to her 
father, and that all was going very well in- 
deed with the family of Gateya Ruiz. On 
their next visit to the Springs they found 
that both father and mother had died, and 
the sons had married. Mrs. Page took 
Maria back to the city with her when she 
returned, and she is still living in the family, 
faithful and beloved. She will probably 
never be called upon to die for her Faith, but 
there is no doubt she would have the courage 
to do so, if necessary — or even for her kind 
benefactors, whom she dearly loves and 
reveres. 


^ ^ 0 


FLOWER OF THE MISSION 157 


The Pages left Agua Caliente the last of 
November, after another night of rain, which 
put the roads in splendid condition for 
traveling. This year old residents were 
divided in opinion as to the probability of a 
wet winter. Mr. Page was interested in the 
subject, as he had a ranch of several thou- 
sand acres between the Springs and Ramona, 
seven hundred of which were planted in hay. 
He had promised his family’ a trip to 
Europe in case the venture turned out well, 
as he expected to clear a good deal of money 
should there be abundant rains. Therefore 
there was personal interest at stake on the 
much discussed subject of the weather. 

When they started from Agua Caliente 
Nellie remarked that the automobile re- 
minded her of pictures she had seen of old- 
time heroes and their familes in a triumphal 
car, almost hidden under the laurel crowns 
and branches with which their grateful fel- 
low-countrymen had bedecked them. They 
had gathered quantities of giant ferns and 


158 FLOWES OF THE MISSION 


splendid holly, the red berries gleaming like 
coral amid the leaves of dark, glossy green. 
The automobile was filled with them. 

They started very early in the morning. 
As they left the Springs behind them the 
rising sun was touching the mountain peaks 
in the background with its brush of golden 
fire. The first part of the journey was 
pleasant, but uneventful. They stopped at 
Santa Isabel for half an hour to mend a 
broken tire, and at Witch Creek for lunch- 
eon, where !Mr. Page met an old friend from 
the East, and tarried for two hours. By 
special request of the young people they de- 
ployed from the main route and came down 
through La Jolla along the cliff road and 
so to Pacific Beach, keeping as near as they 
could to the coast-line all the way. 

'When approaching Old Town, near False 
Bay they saw a group of men gathered in 
earnest conversation, apparently looking at 
something above them in the air. 

“See, father!” cried Walter. “Can it be 
an eagle ? Look how black it is.” 


FLOWER OF THE MISSION loQ 


Mr. Page stopped the automobile. 

son,” answered a bronzed, gray- 
bearded, weather-beaten man in the center 
of the groop. “IPs a black seagull, and 
I"m just telKn’ my friends here that we’re 
sore now of a rainy winter.” 

“I did not know there were any black sea- 
gulls,” answered Walter. 

“There’s a few. There’s tins one, any- 
way,” repHed the ancient mariner drily. 
“He’s called ‘Ebony Joe^’ and he ain’t been 
here before for serm years. He’s the sign 
of a wet season and good crops. His home 
is at ^lagdalena Bay m Lower California; 
leastwise he’s alters seoi there on the rare 
occasions whm rain falls. 

“He ain’t bem here for sevm years. 
That time, Hke this, there’d hem a dry season 
the year before, and folks was croakin’ a 
good lot and discouraged. 

“Then all of a suddm one day ‘Ebony 
Joe’ come circim’ round, and though the sun 
was shrnin* hr^fatly in the ^ky, that night 
the weather changed and ne^ momin’ the 


160 FLOWER OF THE MISSION 


country was soaked. And all the time it 
was pourin’, while the other gulls stood in 
shiverin’ heaps under shelter of the wharf- 
piles, and bunkers, wherever they could 
escape the wet, ‘Ebony Joe’ kep’ wheelin’ 
round and round, enjoyin’ hisself in the rain. 
I was livin’ on the water-front then, and I 
seen him. He stayed about three days, and 
then he disappeared. Older pioneers than 
me, Mexicans mostly, remembered to have 
seen him several times before. That’s seven 
years ago, as I said and he hasn’t been back 
since. But look at him now. Ain’t he a 
splendid bird? And black as coal.” 

Beneath the ebony bird, on the shore of 
the Bay, a bevy of white gulls fluttered and 
screamed, while above, about fifty feet from 
the water, “he” circled and swept, swooped 
down and rose again, his wings outspread 
“for all the world like a toy aeroplane” said 
the weather-beaten man. Coal black he was 
indeed, and strong, and graceful in the ex- 
treme. He uttered no sound in reply to the 
vociferations of his fellow-gulls. 


FLOWER OF THE MISSION 161 


“I wish I knew their language,” ex- 
claimed Nellie. “Are they welcoming him, 
or are they afraid of him? Do they look 
upon him as a superior being or an inter- 
loper?” 

“It’s my private opinion,” said the old tar, 
“that yonder bird brings some kind of mes- 
sage to his kin. He was first seen yesterday 
down by the Santa Fe wharf, a-flyin’ and 
silent as you see him now, stoppin’, though, 
every few minutes just above every spot 
where groups of gulls was restin’. And 
this mornin’ I take it, he’s come all the way 
down the shore interviewin’ those along the 
bay in the same silent way. It beats me, 
but we’re sure of a good rainfall this year. 
‘Ebony Joe’ alters brings it.” 

Even as he spoke the bird soared rapidly 
above their heads, and in a moment began 
his return to the Santa Fe wharf, where he 
had first appeared the previous day. The 
party in the automobile followed his flight 
until they were obliged to turn off from the 
boulevard to the street that led to home. 


162 FLOWER OF THE MISSION 


“Well, father,” said Walter, as the bird 
disappeared, “it’s to be Europe for us surely 
next year, is it?” 

“I hope so,” replied Mr. Page. “That 
is, if ‘Ebony Joe’ keeps his record.” Which 
he did. 


THE END 


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VIOLIN- MAKER OF MITTENWALD, THE. Schaching 

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ANUAL OF THE HOLY NAME. 24mo. 0 60 

X2 


Leather, 

Gilt. 

1 26 
0 60 

1 26 
1 25 

0 60 

1 26 


0 40—4 60 

1 25 
1 26 

1 76 


1 50—2 00 
0 90 

0 30—3 25 
0 60—2 00 

0 66—1 76 

1 25—3 76 
1 25—4 60 

0 60—1 8C 

1 00 

0 90 

1 00 
1 75 
1 00 

0 40—6 00 

1 10 


Clotlu 

MANUAL OF THE SACRED HEART, NEW. 


Oblong 24mo. 0 35 

MANUAL OF ST. ANTHONY, NEW. 32mo. 0 50 

MANUAL OF ST. JOSEPH, LITTLE. By Right 

Rev. Mgr. A. A. Lings. Oblong 82 mo. 0 16 

MISSION-BOOK FOR THE MARRIED. By Rev. 

F. Girardey, C.SS.R. 32mo. 0 60 

MISSION-BOOK FOR THE SINGLE. By Rev. F. 

Girardey, C.SS.R. 32mo. 0 60 

MISSION-BOOK OF THE REDEMPTORIST 

FATHERS, THE. 32mo. 0 60 

MISSION REMEMBRANCE OF THE REDEMP- 
TORIST FATHERS. By Rev. P. Geiermann. 

82mo. 0 60 

OFFICE OF THE HOLY WEEK, COMPLETE. 

16mo. 0 46 

OUR FAVORITE DEVOTIONS. By Right Rev. 

Mgr. a. a. Lings. Oblong 24mo. 0 76 

OUR FAVORITE DEVOTIONS. By Right Rev. 

Mgr. a. A. Lings. India Paper edition. Oblong 
24mo. 

OUR FAVORITE NOVENAS. By Right Rev. 

Mgr. a. a. Lings. Oblong 24mo. 0 76 

OUR FAVORITE NOVENAS. By Right Rev. 

Mgr. a. A. Lings. India Paper edition. Oblong 
24mo. 

OUR MONTHLY DEVOTIONS. By Right Rev. 

Mgr. a. a. Lings. 16mo. 1 26 

PEARLS OF PRAYER. The tiniest prayer-book pub- 
lished. Measures only x2 inches. 0 46 

POCKET COMPANION. Approved Prayers. Ob. 

48mo. 0 10 

PRACTICAL CATHOLIC, THE. Maxims Suited to 
Catholics of the Day. By Father Palau. Ob. 

24mo. 0 60 

PRACTICAL CATHOUC, THE. Maxims Suited to 
Catholics of the Day. By Father Palau. 

India Paper edition with illustrations. Oblong 24mo. 
SERAPHIC GUIDK THE. 24mo. 0 60 

VEST-POCKET GEMS OF DEVOTION. Oblong 

32mo. 0 20 

VEST-POCKET GEMS OF DEVOTION. With 

Epistles and Gospels. Oblong 32mo. 0 26 

VISITS TO THE MOST HOLY SACRAMENT AND 
TO THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY. By St. 
Alphonsus Liguori. S2mo. 0 36 


Leather, 

Gilt. 

0 75—1 86 

0 75 

0 60 

1 00 
1 00 
1 00 

1 00—1 66 

0 90—1 10 

1 20 

1 50—2 60 
1 20 

1 60—2 60 

2 00 

0 60—2 26 
0 26—1 00 

1 00—1 60 

1 25—3 00 
0 76 

0 36—3 00 
0 60—4 60 

0 75—1 00 


PRAYER-BOOKS WITH LARGE TYPE 

KEY OF HEAVEN. With Epistles and Gospels. 

24mo. 0 45 0 90—3 75 

KEY OF HEAVEN, ^istles and Gospels. 32mo. 0 30 0 66 — 1 85 

POCKET MANUAL. Epistles and Gospels. Oblong 

32mo. 0 25 0 60—1 35 

WAY TO HEAVEN, THE. Contains many indul- 

genced prayers taken from the Raccolta. 32mo. 0 35 0 75 — 1 85 

PRAYER-BOOKS FOR CHILDREN AND FIRST COMMUNICANTS 

BOYS’ AND GIRLS’ MISSION-BOOK. Large 

48mo. 0 36 0 76 

BREAD OF ANGELS. Instructions and Prayers Es- 
pecially Suited for First Communicants. By Rev. 

B. Hammer, O.F.M. Large 48mo. 0 26 0 66 — 4 60 

13 


CHILD OF MARY, THE. Especially for the Use of 
First Communicants. 33mo. 

CHILDREN’S PRAYER-BOOK, THE. By Rev. P. J. 
Sloan. Small 32mo, 

CHILD’S PRAYER-BOOK, THE. 48mo. 

DEVOUT CHILD, THE. With 18 full-page illustra- 
tions of the Mass. 48mo. 

FIRST COMMUNICANT’S MANUAL. Small 32mo. 

FIRST COMMUNION PRAYER-BOOK FOR SMALL 
CHILDREN. By Rev. P. J. Sw)an. Small 
32mo. 

LITTLE ALTAR BOY’S MANUAL. Instructions for 
Serving at Mass, Vespers, etc. With pray- 
ers. 

LITTLE FIRST COMMUNICANT, THE. By Rev. 
B. Hammer, O.F.M. Small 32mo. 

PIOUS CHILD, THE. With 18 full-page illustrations 
of the Mass. 48mo. 

SHORT PRAYERS FOR YOUNG CATHOLICS. 
With Epistles and Gospels. 48mo. 

SODALIST’S VADE MECUM, THE. Prayer-Book 
and Hymnal for the Children of Mary. 32mo. 


Leather, 
Clotfu Gilt. 


0 

45 

0 

95—2 

00 

0 

20 

0 

60 


0 

16 

0 

40—0 

90 

0 

10 




0 

35 

0 

65—2 

50 

0 

20 

0 

50 


0 

25 

0 

60 


0 

25 

9 

60 


0 

12 

0 

45 


0 

20 

0 

45—1 

95 

0 

40 

0 

65 



The following catalogues will be sent free on application: 

Catalogue of Benziger Brothers’ Standard Catholic Publications. 
Catalogue of School Books. Catalogue of Premium Books. 

Catalogue of Prayer-Books. Catalogue of Libraries. 

Catalogue of Imported Books. Catalogue of Latin and Liturgical Books. 

A copy of “Catholic Books in English’’ now in print in America and 
Europe will be sent on receipt of 50 cents. Bound in cloth, it contains 
over 6,000 titles and over 300 illustrations of authors. Supplements will 
be issued from time ^ to time to make the catalogue as complete as 
possible, and these will be furnished free of charge to those ordering 
“Catholic Books in English.’* 






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